A birthday only tends to come around once a year or so. Twice, perhaps, depending on your spiritual bend. More, I suppose, if you’re a grifter who travels a lot or who has a several separate groups of friends who never talk to each other directly. It’s not a bad idea if you want to score on gifts or free drinks, but this level of lying in permanence would drive me to drink – and not in a healthy way.
In the ** years I have spent on the planet as a cognizant human being, I have noticed that people deal with their birthdays in very different ways. There are those who jealously guard the occasion as if it’s a deposit of gold or the location of a store in Prague that has good peanut butter. To address these guys’ birthdays is seen as an insult of high magnitude. Others come in the opposite with a lot of look at me look at me look at me. One girl on Facebook put out a reminder a week before: You guys, it’s my birthday week!
To be honest, this sort of crave for attention draw raises both of my eyebrows. But I lower them quickly. When it comes to your birthday – the one day a year where you are special – then all is game and no holds shall be barred.
I tend to keep my birthdays lowkey. I’d say I don’t like a lot of fanfare, but the truth is, I have trouble remembering names and, should I partake in the whiskey too much, events or ways home. A small shindig means fewer people to apologize to the next day for social faux-pas – if it’s even necessary. This is what I like: a few people who know what they are getting into, who are old enough not to care, who will drink as much as me, and just as likely forget what it is I might be apologizing for. These are my people.
No, if I have a birthday tendency, it’s the self-allowance. It’s the ‘go ahead! It’s your birthday!’ attitude. When I was younger and had more time, better balance, fewer responsibilities, and no ability for good judgment, this attitude would be applied to drinking. Start at noon? Why not! And so days started earlier and ended later. (read: I also had stamina). For a decade or two, my birthdays ended the following morning and often with a double-stacked hangover. Given the right circumstances, it started up again for day two. And in something like a deranged Easter celebration, it might even creep into day three. Why not? It’s my birthday. (i.e. was / three days ago).
This is no longer the case. Sure, there’s a bit of partying and tippling. But it’s mostly contained to a night with friends and the next morning is usually filled with ibuprofen and liquid IV and lots of television. No, now my relaxed birthday attitude is applied to food, relaxation, and the ability to completely avoid the world. You want another chocolate? Sure you can! It’s your birthday! Have three! Read that book. OK! Hey, what’s three chocolates without a fourth!? Maybe I’ll order food to go with my book. This is great. My phone’s ringing. Oh well, I’m reading.
It was glorious.
Were my 25-year-old-self to witness my spectacular birthday plans, he would cry. He would also be drunk, so crying would come easier to him. What a loser, he might exclaim. Then he’d go for a three-day bender that would mess his head up for a month.
Oh, I know it’s an old story: person grows up. But it’s one that feels quite nice to the grown-up. There’s a quiet joy in knowing deep within yourself that you derive joy from simpler things than you used to. While I was younger, a night had to be filled with excitement and people. I was out so often that my apartment forgot what I looked like. Nowadays, excitement is cleaning the flat before bed, resting on the couch after a long day of work and feeling content. It may sound boring – and maybe it is – but it’s absolutely perfect. Especially if you can eat naughty food along with this perfection.
