Thanks…now fuck off!
This week I had a birthday, turning 49. Once again I was reminded of why I can’t stand birthdays. They are not as bad as weddings, mind you, no uncomfortable suits, bad music, and drunk uncles making fools of themselves, but I’ve never been a fan. It has nothing to do with the “getting older” thing, I really don’t mind being my age (seriously, what’s the option?), but really it’s about EVERYONE ELSE IN THE WORLD.
Let me explain.
Several years ago, when I first started a Facebook account, I was happily surprised to see that the app reminded me of other peoples birthdays. For me, this was a game changer. I never spend any time thinking about “what shall I do for my birthday?”, so I never spend any time thinking about “what shall I do for other people’s birthdays?”. It’s not that I don’t like other people (although usually I don’t), I’m just apathetic to birthdays. Seriously, what have I done to deserve any celebration besides not being dead? Before Facebook, I never remembered anyones birthdays, not on purpose, just, who cares? But now, I can look like a real person with feelings, and, thanks to technology and social media, I can send “Birthday Greetings” with a few key strokes and never have to actually interact with anyone. It’s fantastic. A brand new me…at least in the virtual world.
But, it’s a double edged sword. Now that I get reminded about birthdays, all my “virtual friends” get reminded about mine…and that’s when it begins to suck. All day long, constant messages-happy happy this and thats, wow your olds, gifs left and right-and it all starts at five thirty in the fucking morning! Don’t most people take the day off on their birthday? Doesn’t that mean sleeping in? Nope! Thanks Facebook-pingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingpingping-all morning long. And then you have to respond…something witty perhaps, or a heartfelt “thanks”…at the very least a “like” to the umpteen people who you don’t know, have never known, and still don’t know why they are your friends on this app ,but you haven’t figured out how to delete them.
This is exhausting. Then the phone calls begin. Again, at some god forsaken time in the morning when all I want to do is either sleep or have a “Good Morning” wank to wake up. Kinda hard to do with Mom on the phone. Then we start again with a non-stop barrage of poorly sung birthday songs (“Today it’s your birthday, nah nah nah nah nah, It’s my birthday too…” click!), old age jokes, and, the very worst, “so, what are you doing for your birthday?”.
Nothing.
I’m doing nothing.
I want to sit. Read. Drink. Read some more. Drink a LOT more, and just take it easy. I do like going to a bar on my birthday, people buy you drinks and you get drunk for free. That’s about it.
“I wanna take you out to dinner for your birthday, where do you want to go? Anywhere you want!”
“How about restaurant “A”?” It doesn’t matter which restaurant you pick.
“Mmmmmm…that’s kinda far away…where else?”
“How about restaurant “B”?” Again, it doesn’t matter which one.
“Mmmmmm…I’ve never been there, not sure about that, where else?”
“Why don’t you pick one!”
“NO! It’s your birthday, you pick!”
This is around the time I seriously consider buying a gun. And I am not even going to get into going to a chain restaurant and having the servers sing to you. I just can’t.
My birthday is even more fun because it’s shared with about 10,000 people. Everyone has to have the same birthday. My sister, my nephew, my father-in-law, umpteen friends. You’d think I’d be used to it, being a twin, but it just gets annoying because, not only do I have to endure receiving birthday greetings, I have to GIVE THEM OUT, too. So I pretty much spend most of my day on the phone, tapping away *ping* thank you! *ping* like! *Ping* happy birthday to you, too *ping* LOL *ping* BANG!
One moment while I pick my brains up off the floor.
Then we have the gifts. I’ve never been comfortable receiving gifts, I’m not really sure why. Maybe it has to do with most gifts just SUCK. Please…do not buy me clothes. EVER! I will not wear them. My style is best described as “unemployed lesbian”, so, no, I will not wear that silk shirt with colorful little shoes all over them. I don’t want gift cards to crappy chain restaurants I don’t eat at and just have to give away to someone else (I have mastered the art of the Re-gift!). Please don’t have your child make me something, or, worse, you make me something I have to store in my basement for years.
“Here! I bought you a six pack of really great beer!”
“Thanks. I don’t drink beer.”
My partner received a gift from a client once. We still have no idea what the fuck it is. It’s round, made of wood or some wood-type substance, has a small piece of rope sticking out of the top and it’s covered in intricate carvings. Not. A. Clue.
Thanks?
If we’re at a bar, buy me a drink, but don’t tell anyone why. Bar patrons always get excited about the word “birthday”. It really lights up a room. Some stranger will sing horribly and laugh, they’ll ask how old you are and tell you you don’t look that old. Thanks. The rotting is starting on the inside. And don’t you feel a little bad when someone tells you their 30 and your response is, “Oh, thought you were 50.”
“Shots!”
Sorry, not in college any more.
So, for me, the perfect birthday is the next day. When I’ve been forgotten by most, and moved on by all. The day after is quiet. My phone is quietly recovering from it’s day of over use. I’m still not dead. I have 364 days before I have to endure this crap again. I get to sleep in, read, and spend some time thinking about my friends and family…and who is going to get the Applebee’s gift card.