Birthday Fail – A Historical Review of Why I Hate Birthdays

I think I peaked early with birthday celebrations. The best birthday I recall is my 6th birthday party. I looked happy in the photos. That was the top of the heap. Every other birthday since has just sucked balls.

When I turned six, my mother threw me a party complete with a four foot tall white rabbit piñata, party hats and people. I don’t recall more than the piñata smashing, that was my favorite part because it released the candy, and I don’t even remember the present. That was it, the best party I ever had, the only memories of a good time that I have had my entire life. Pretty pathetic right?

Well, let’s break down just why I don’t even get excited for my birthday anymore. It could just be like any other day and I would be fine with it.

Why do my birthdays always suck? Let me count the ways…

1. My mother is a narcissist.

I think any activity that takes all the focus off of her is antithetical to her nature, so somehow it has to come back to being about her in some way.

On my birthday my mother wakes me up at the butt crack of dawn to sing me “Las Mañanitas” which is sweet as hell, but I am not a morning person and after that it just feels rude to fall back asleep, especially because she probably had made me breakfast.

But there were many times when she would be singing the song and then she would burst into tears because it reminded her of her mother and how her mother died when she was little and she didn’t have a mom to sing that to her on her birthday… and well fuck. Now I am comforting her, and I thought it was supposed to be to be my day to celebrate me.

Thanks, mom! For bringing that depressing story to my morning routine. Should have left me sleeping. She has upgraded to calling me to sing me the song since she can’t creep into my bedroom because I’m a grown ass woman, but the morning calls are as equally dramatic.

Hard pass.

2. Somehow a tradition began (who the fuck knows when) that not only do I get a gift on my birthday, but so does my brother (and vice versa).

Not a gift of equal size, but something smaller, yet still, a gift.

This tradition sucked most of all because inevitably the gift my brother got for his birthday 6 months after mine, was always what I really wish someone had given me, and what I would get on my birthday was just absolute shit in comparison 6 months later the following Spring.

I don’t think I am ungrateful — but I recall one of my brother’s birthdays he got a microscope. Why was I never given cool shit like that? What did I get on my birthday 6 months later? A Barbie Winnebago. It’s like getting something useful versus getting fluff. Shit gifts. That’s what I consistently receive on my birthday.

3. When I was married, my husband sabotaged every birthday by forgetting or by being an asshole

I have a sour taste in my mouth about my birthdays thanks to the ex. I recall many a birthday celebration that I spent in tears because he acted like a tool.

Like the year I had to work on my birthday, came home to a house full of his friends drunk off their asses, and then once they leave because they realized that maybe I needed to be alone with my husband, he then proceeded to wander his drunk ass next door to our neighbors who were drinking outside in their driveway and party with them until 3am.

Yeah. That was my favorite.

Or the year that he swore he had a special gift for me and wanted me to make my day special so he had me make all these appointments to pamper myself, then proceeded to go out with his friend and not make it back home in time for me to make it to any of my appointments.

Or the year that he just forgot, and I didn’t say anything because I was hurt and decided to let it go, but then he makes it my fault that I didn’t remind him.

Or the year he gave me a gold necklace with an emerald pendant (when I only wear silver) with the last of the money we had in our checking account and bills were due. Suffice to say that 15 years of that bullshit and I was pretty much done.

4. Had friends try to throw me a party and they failed spectacularly because it was clear they were dialing it in.

When I was married and living in Virginia, I had a group of friends I met through church. They were great. We shared a lot of good times. However, it was clear that they had a lot of history and I was late to the show.

Not a big deal for me, I get it. We were military and moved around a lot, so I wasn’t expecting deep attachments. However, nothing is worse than feeling like a pity project and that was exactly what my birthday always felt like.

There was a friend in the group, very self-centered gal who needed constant affirmation from outside sources (like her girlfriends), whose birthday was exactly 2 months before mine to the day.

There was always pressure to throw her an extravaganza every year because she was a needy bitch and if nobody made a huge deal about her birthday, she was going to throw a fit I guess? I am not sure what the threat was because every year she made it a big deal — celebrating a birthday month, advertising about what trip she was treating herself to this year for her bday, what salon treatment, what haircut, and on and on.

So this one year, the group discovers that my bday is two months after hers. We have a good time on this birthday of hers, we go out to dinner- there’s themed balloons and cake, everyone shows up. Later, we go out dancing, we have a blast. So after such a high, how is anyone going to follow that up for me, whom they don’t know as well, and not have it be an exact copy of what they did for her 2 months before?

That’s right, there’s nothing. So it was terrible, not a lot of people showed up and because no one really knew me and I didn’t advertise and send facebook reminders, they brought lame gifts out of a need to bring something.

I wish there had been no party at all. I was embarrassed for my friend who organized it all because she realized as it was happening that it was a total failure. I don’t think we attempted to do anything again after that, but that’s what I mean. My birthdays are always terrible.

5. My father consistently ruined my birthday. Only thing he could be counted on to do without fail.

Growing up my strongest memories of my birthdays spent with my dad were of sitting in the car as it was double parked outside the 24 hr Post Office across the street from Penn Station while I waited for him to mail off his taxes at the last minute in the middle of the night. Spoiler alert: Tax filing deadline and my birthday have something in common.

Year after year I remember sitting in that car in the dark. Sitting in the front passenger seat so the car wouldn’t get towed. Time wasted as the hour crept closer to, then passed midnight until eventually he would emerge from the darkness.

Then would come the excuses, if he even acknowledged that it was my birthday. It seemed like every year my dad would give me the excuse that he would have gotten me a cool present but he had to pay his taxes.

It’s like, dude, my birthday comes around every year on the same day. Not a valid excuse. It was clear that I wasn’t worthy of planning ahead for, that I am basically an afterthought, worthy only of last minute attempts that he couldn’t afford because he was always owing on his taxes year after year. If he gave me gifts they were forgettable.

One year though, there was a highlight when my step-mother at the time gave me my first Sony Walkman. That was the best gift ever, until she gave my brother one at the same time (see reason #2). And it was in the car, and it was outside the post office.

So it was a consolation prize if there was ever one, but back in the Dark Ages before MP3 players and iPods and Spotify, if you didn’t have one of these bad boys, you were stuck listening to whatever was on the radio, or nothing at all. It may have been a duplicated gift, but it was still manna from heaven for me.

6. Getting terrible gifts has been my biggest fear.

I don’t want to fake liking something I think is terrible. I don’t want to take a gift that when I look at it feels like it was meant for someone else and I’m just the consolatory recipient of this misplaced item.

My life’s birthdays have been a long list of regifts and last minute purchases. The romantic spirit living deep inside me weeps every time because just once I’d like someone to give a shit about me enough to try a little, and I think if that ever happened I’d fucking fall apart.

So I fear that just as much for the fact that I don’t want to feel beholden to that benevolent being. Because they’d probably own my dark and shriveled up soul at that point.

7. I don’t want to acknowledge that I am getting older.

I am not aging gracefully. I inherited my father’s unfortunate genetics and started going grey in my early 30s. Ten years later and I am salt and peppered in the most jarring way since my face inherited my mother’s weird ageless genetics and were my hair not so old lady like, I’d probably look like my son’s cooler older sister or aunt.

I probably don’t want to get older because I feel like I wasted so much of my life in the pointless pursuit of a life thrust upon me. I was married through my 20s and 30s. By the time I divorced the ex, I felt like a dried up husk. I just don’t believe I have anything left to give.

I am trying to own my age, but it is difficult since I don’t really know what my age is supposed to feel like. All I feel most days is defeat and the foreboding sense that if I passed all I’d leave behind is unfinished business and a mountain of bills.

That is enough to keep my heart pumping as I simultaneously work myself into an early grave and try to enjoy my newfound single years. Oh joy.

8. My father was the asshole who called me on his birthday to tell me it’s his birthday. But would forget to call me on mine.

More specifically, he would call to find out why I hadn’t called him on his birthday, at 8am or earlier. Like I am supposed to wake up at the ass crack of dawn and wake up to wish him a happy birthday? Fucking hell man, give it a rest!

Now that you’ve woken me up because you’re a self-centered asshole who only thinks of himself and lacks the patience to wait instead of demanding attention, I don’t even want to acknowledge your birthday, much less wish you a happy one.

Is it any wonder I disowned him ages ago? That’s the shit I had growing up. Did I get the same early morning wakeup call wishing me Happy Birthday?

No.

9. I am not throwing a party for myself.

If no one else is going to remember, and no one else acknowledges my birthday, why should I?

When I had a circle of friends, they never bothered. I now have no circle, so there is no expectation. But it stressed me out every year when I would wonder if I should mention that my birthday was coming, but then deciding against it because in this electronic age, there are a hundred apps reminding you of one thing or another. I am obviously no one’s priority.

My least favorite post birthday comment? “Why didn’t you say it was your birthday?”

What for? So I can force you to feel emotions towards me that don’t exist? To fabricate an obligation to celebrate a day that holds no meaning for you? So you can ask me how old am I and I have to be forced to answer? No thanks. Hard pass.

Facebook wishes do not count. I still haven’t checked my account to see if there are any memes or comments posted there. The number goes down every year, especially since I uninstalled the app from my phone because it was a major source of personal stress and discontent. Hopefully there are so few that I can skip acknowledging them.

10. Case, and final point: My birthday this year.

I purposely said nothing at work about it being my birthday. I don’t celebrate a birthday week. I don’t make it a birthday month. On the day of, I didn’t even take the day off work because what the hell for? But, I at least wanted to relax and mind my own business when I got home.

So sure enough that’s EXACTLY what I don’t get.

I get home, my youngest son has left the house to hang out with his friend, whatever. My oldest son is still home, he asks if we can go for tacos – not for anything celebratory, but just cause he’s hungry. So we go out.

15 minutes after I have left the house and am about to sit down to dinner, my mother texts me asking if I am home because they (her and my bro) have some things they want to give me. I’m like, no one is home, don’t bother stopping by my house. They’re like, no problem, like what time are you going to be home? Well, shit.

Now I have to form a deadline on my evening out? This sucks.

I had plans to do extra stuff after the tacos. I don’t know why I give them a time, but I do. So I head to my next destination after tacos, and discover that the one place I wanted to go had closed early. Disappointing.

Heading home, I figure let me swing by their place to get whatever they have so I can just go home and rest in peace. No reply, I don’t even know if they are still awake.

I keep driving home. 20 minutes after I get home and get my pajamas on they reply: Sure, come by the house.

Too fucking late assholes, I’m already home.

So over to my house they come. I’m hoping its going to be a simple drive by, drop off whatever shit they have and bounce. I don’t want cake from them, I don’t want a celebration because frankly I don’t WANT to celebrate and it’s my birthday. Not theirs.

Surprisingly there is no cake. But there is a bunch of groceries. Ugh. So now I have to figure out what to do with the stuff they brought.

But lo, and behold, my mother has another surprise. She didn’t just bring my present, nooooo. She brought something for my eldest son who was out of town last month and was not available for my mother to give him his birthday gift (not that he would have accepted it anyway – there is bad blood between them despite my mother’s delusions to the contrary).

So I warn her, hey, no one mentioned this shit, and I don’t know if he is going to be interested in seeing you. Sure enough, I ask, and he says no, he does not want to see my mother and if she has something for him to leave it, he might open it later.

That’s not good enough for her. She proceeds to throw a fit and badmouth me and talk shit about me, my son, my house (cleanliness varies), and the state of my yard. Basically just bitching about everything and ruining my evening.

After thoroughly making me regret having let her into my home, I usher her out. She complains as she gets into my brother’s car and I think to myself, once again, she has made this day about her. It’s not enough that it was my birthday, but somehow she has turned this event into a personal attack on her because my son refused to see her (with good reason) and I honored his wishes (cause I’m going to stand behind my son’s decision), making this all about her.

I fucking hate my birthday.

In conclusion, I hate my birthday. It has no meaning for me, and I spend the entire month hoping no one will notice or ask me about it.