My birthday hasn’t been a big deal to me since about 7th grade. Or, as we say in Canada, grade 7. I haven’t had a birthday party since then, other than dinner with my family, because that’s the way I like it. I don’t want a party, I don’t want people coming up to me wishing me a happy birthday, I don’t want a big deal to be made at all. Just leave the presents on the porch.
I don’t like opening them in front of people because I can never get the right “surprised face”. I always look like I just opened a box full of dead flies but I’m trying to be nice about it because these flies were hand-picked especially for me and are VERY SPECIAL and also cost a lot of money, so I should be appreciative of the effort and thought. But it’s a box of dead flies, so that face is hard to camouflage. But it’s never an ACTUAL box of dead flies; all my gifts are wonderful and I love them and they’re exactly perfect. That’s just how my face looks. Like I’m looking into a box of special dead present flies.
I think I’ve lost the plot.
So, my birthday. It’s not that big a deal. I’m pretty sure no one at work even knows when it is because no one ever puts up a HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JEN O.! notice on our bulletin board like they do for everyone else. That sounded sad, but it’s fine with me. No notices means no one knows. Or it means no one likes me enough to wish me a happy birthday. Either way.
On the other hand, I might be secretive about my birthday because I want to see who really cares. Who has put in the legwork to figure it out for themselves? I think I might have it on my Facebook page for reasons unknown (probably an accident), but I don’t think anyone pays attention to that anyway. And, with finding out who cares comes the added bonus of finding out WHO DOESN’T CARE. If I DON’T tell you when my birthday is AND YOU DON’T WISH ME A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, obviously YOU DON’T CARE, and that gives me licence to huff. Not huffing = inhalant abuse. Huffing = not talking to you because you’ve scorned me something terrible and this not talking to you makes you feel even worse about your sins.
How mature is THAT? That right there is entrapment, which is something that us women do from time to time. Men scratch their nuts, women trick people into feeling bad about themselves.
Well, no more of that nonsense. I’m going back to my roots of not caring and hoping you don’t either. Wish me a happy birthday, if you want. I’ll probably react awkwardly and mumble something like “you, too” and blush and walk away while you’re in the middle of a sentence, but that’s just what I do. Or don’t wish me a happy birthday. I won’t hold it against you because it’s just a birthday. They happen every year. Is every single one that big a deal? No, no they’re not. I’ll admit that there’s a handful of milestone birthdays that are important. The first one, for example. And it’s cool if you want to throw yourself a giant party every single year you continue to live, that’s just not my style. I prefer to pretend like it’s exactly the same as every other day. Because it is.
Tomorrow is my 32nd birthday and it is just another day.