I just don’t get birthdays.
Call me a party pooper, a joyless grump, or a Grinch who stole the birth-day – but the whole concept mystifies me. From my vantage point, it feels less like a celebration and more like an annual, mandatory performance art piece where humanity collectively pretends that merely existing for another 365 days is worthy of a standing ovation and a new kitchen gadget.
Let’s be brutally honest for a moment, shall we? What exactly is the achievement being celebrated here? You were born. That’s it. You popped out of a vagina (most likely). Congratulations, you successfully exited a human incubator. It's not like you engineered your arrival or fought off a horde of evil sperm to be the chosen one. You were just… there.
And yet, every year, we’re expected to open our wallets, venture into shopping malls (a trauma in itself), and procure tangible objects for someone who, let’s face it, did absolutely nothing to earn this bounty other than accrue another year of oxygen consumption.
The hypocrisy is what truly grates on my cynical soul.
For 364 days of the year, I’m just Joe Schmoe, navigating the existential dread of modern life. But then, on one specific, arbitrary date, I’m suddenly the star of the show! "Happy Birthday!" people chirp, as if my continued respiration is a miracle akin to turning water into wine.
We’re expected to buy someone lunch, shell out for drinks in a social setting, or endure the awkward "surprise!" party where everyone pretends they're genuinely delighted to see you age. All because, many moons ago, on that very day, your journey from womb to world began. It’s bewildering.
Now, let’s flip the script.
If this were the anniversary of the day you beat cancer or completed a grueling marathon or finally paid off your student loans (a truly heroic feat, if ever there was one) – absolutely! Let’s pop the champagne, throw confetti and possibly erect a small, tasteful statue in your honor. Those are milestones. Those are accomplishments. You did something. You overcame, you persevered, you achieved.
But having a countdown until your birthday? As if it’s some grand personal triumph? I’ve seen people more excited about a new season of their favorite streaming show.
And don’t even get me started on the social media theatrics. Oh, you know the ones. The highly curated selfies featuring suspiciously good lighting, accompanied by captions designed to prompt an avalanche of "Happy Birthday!" comments and, ideally, "You look good for your age!" replies.
My personal favorites include: "Another trip around the sun!" (as if you personally piloted the Earth’s orbit), "This is what [insert age here] looks like!" (it looks like you got older, Brenda, just like everyone else), or the ever-popular "Last year in my 20s!" (cue the dramatic sighs and unsolicited advice from those who have "been there"). And then there's the digital panhandling where people have the nerve to post their Venmo or Paypal link, expecting viewers to send monetary gifts.
It's an attention-seeking spectacle, a digital fishing expedition for validation. You had nothing to do with the actual event being celebrated and yet you’re demanding the virtual equivalent of a ticker-tape parade. The sheer audacity of it!
Here’s an alternative, and frankly, far more logical, proposal: If any day in the calendar deserves a major celebration related to one’s birth, it should be a day dedicated entirely to the woman who accomplished the feat. The mother. She spent nine months as your personal real estate, enduring morning sickness, inexplicable cravings and the indignity of swollen ankles.
Then, she performed a physical feat of strength and endurance that would make a Navy SEAL reconsider their life choices. She pushed you out of her body, likely through a significant amount of pain and discomfort. That is an achievement. That is an accomplishment worthy of a lifetime supply of cake, a foot rub and perhaps a small island nation named in her honor. (And don't say Mother's Day because that's a general commercialized made-up holiday for every mom on the same day.)
So, next time my birthday rolls around, don’t expect me to be counting down the minutes or posting triumphant selfies. I’ll just be here, mildly perplexed, perhaps contemplating the profound absurdity of it all.
If you want to celebrate something, celebrate the fact that I’m still here, still navigating this baffling world and still trying to figure out why we make such a fuss about simply existing for another year.