HOW DID I EVEN GET HERE?

Don’t Hate Your Birthday! Love Your Life

Changing birthday blues into gratitude woo-hoos

I used to hate my birthday — up until this morning. Then I changed my mind. I realized I didn’t have a good reason as to why I hated it.

Aliens didn’t land on earth on my birthday, infesting or ingesting my family. My house never exploded from an errant firework someone set on my birthday cake. A murder of crows never chases me down the street, poking out my eyes, on my birthday. A swat team never invaded my house arresting my parents for being Russian spies on my birthday.

I’ve just always said, “I hate my birthday.”

Why? I can only guess. So that people don’t try to celebrate me? So no one brings me cake? So I don’t get a party? I don’t hate people. I don’t hate parties. I don’t love cake but I don’t have cake PTSD.

Saying I hate my birthday is something I picked up, like smoking or losing my earbuds. It’s a habit. It never occurred to me I could shake it until this morning when I was swimming in an orange sunrise. I thought, Wow. I’m alive for this.

I used to be smug about hating my birthday. Don’t wish me a happy birthday, I said cockily. I hate my birthday!

I was like a baby who learned that by saying ‘I hated things’, I got whatever I wanted. I was a big spoiled birthday baby. I wonder what I wanted people to give me when I said that. Did I want them to give me money, pity, sushi? I don’t know.

Once, someone suggested to me I hated my birthday because I wasn’t a twin. My sisters are twins and the person was convinced I was sad because I didn’t have a double to share my birthday with.

That was probably the weirdest suggestion ever made considering my sisters would love to have their own birthday. Most people do. That’s why people walk around telling everyone, “It’s my birthday!” Because it’s all about them for that one day. Unless they’re Beyonce.

We used to have a girl on our street whose mom had a love parade for her every year on her birthday. Her mom ran down the street singing, “It’s Martha’s Day. It’s Martha’s Day!” We made fun of her at the time, but I think we were jealous of all the attention she got. I mean, a parade.

I have these creeps who live in my head who try to influence my thoughts. When I was trying to figure out why I was so birthday averse, the little creeps started chattering.

Do you hate your birthday because you’re old? One little creep asked.

Maybe, I answered.

Is it because you haven't accomplished everything you wanted to accomplish? Another little creep chimed in.

Sort of, I said.

Although there are bad little creeps in my head, good little creeps live in there too. One of the good little creeps overheard the gaslighting and knocked out the bad little creeps with tear gas. The good little creep was wearing a gas mask so she was okay. Thanks for your concern.

Even though the bad creeps passed out, they got into my amygdala. It was true I didn't want to get older but the only way to avoid that would be to die. Not the best alternative.

This birthday shit was existential.

My husband used to be afraid of me on my birthday. He didn’t know where the landmines were. Any misstep could cause me to have a tantrum, run up to our room, and slam my door like a big mad birthday baby.

It would have been totally reasonable for him to slip a Dear Amy note under the door that read, “Sorry baby. Too much work. Good luck.”

I also hated my birthday or use to (I’m reforming) because it’s the one time of year people unabashedly ask my age. And, they ask it like they’ve been dying to as long as they’ve known me — but they never had the nerve.

My birthdays give them the nerve. I pretend I mishear them when they ask.

Happy Birthday! They say. How many is it? It’s like they’re flirting with my low self-esteem.

Thank you! I say, picking up my phone and pretending I’m fielding birthday calls.

Two things happen when I tell people my age. They say, Are you kidding me? You look so young, which is another way of telling you you’re old. Or worse, they say nothing which means you look your age.

I hate it when people guess my age. I hate it when they guess right. I hate it when they guess wrong. There’s no winning with guessing. Don’t say I look 20. I don’t look 20. Don’t say I look close to my age. I’m not interested in that answer either.

When I worked with little kids, they either thought I was a teenager or an old woman. There’s no winning with kids. Everything is old to them. They’ve been on earth for such a short time. Their number line is screwed.

Facebook is also weird on birthdays. I took my birthday off Facebook one year because I hated my birthday. Then, someone who remembered my birthday without being reminded by Facebook, wrote, Happy Birthday! How come no one else is wishing you a happy birthday? That was humiliating, so I put it back.

The new birthday me says getting older means I’m alive. Another time around the sun, people like to say. You’re not getting older, you’re getting wiser is probably a little off. I think it should be, You’re not getting older, you don’t know where your keys are.

I feel lucky that me and my husband stayed married long enough for him to see this new improved birthday me. I’m not sure he trusts it yet, but only birthdays will tell. Happy Birthday to me, a year older, and where the fuck is my wallet?

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