Another Birthday, but Still the Same Age

It’s no secret that I hate getting older. I don’t like the idea of my boobs sagging, tanned skin looking tacky and leathery instead of sexy and healthy, wrinkles on my face, and the inevitable fact that the waistline of my pants inches closer to my bellybutton with each passing day. I was really quite satisfied when I hit my 23rd birthday a few years ago. I am fond of the number 23 and felt really good about myself. I was ready to call it a day and stay 23 forever, but alas, that isn’t possible. No, no. It seems that no matter how hard I try to ignore my birthday, it still seems to roll around every spring. Even though it isn’t too far in the past, 23 now seems light years away.

I used to hate my birthday even more than I hated actually getting older. I avoided telling people when it falls and still do this to some degree today. I would cry every year and curse Father Time for his consistency in the workplace. Dramatic? Yes, but I doubt anyone would expect less from me. Birthdays haven’t been a very happy occasion for me most years. I had a birthday party when I was seven at a roller rink and none of the kids I invited would skate with me. This tragic episode followed me into adulthood. To this day, I fight tears when telling people why I hate my birthday so much, thinking back to those stupid dipshits with their tube socks and bad haircuts. I don’t even remember why they wouldn’t skate with me. Maybe they were jealous of my impressive skills on eight wheels; I could skate backwards while they kept falling on their asses. Maybe they were pissed that their moms said they had to give me the My Little Ponies or Skip It’s wrapped in pink and yellow birthday wrapping paper instead of keeping these treasures for themselves. It’s a mystery, but a haunting mystery nevertheless.

My unfortunate seventh birthday ended my excitement over getting older. There’s really nothing good about growing up and adding on years, except the party you get once a year. The presents aren’t a bad bit either. I’m pretty sure people give presents on birthdays purely as an act of condolence. Everyone wants to distract you from your impending death. We get one step closer to the end of our lives and deserve presents? It would make more sense for the tradition to be that the birthday girl/boy gives gifts to friends and family to thank these people for putting up them for another year. Sometimes I think that when I become a mother I’ll force my kids to give me gifts on their birthdays as a thank you for carrying them around in my papoose for nine months. Mother’s Day, you ask? One day is not enough thanks for the stretch marks I am sure to endure.

My family couldn’t flat out not acknowledge my birthday, since I have three sisters it seemed a little unfair to give them presents and not me. As I got a little bit older, my parents started replacing my birthday with made up holidays celebrating events that fell around my birthday. I may not have wanted to age, but who was I to argue a cake and presents for Happy Get Your Braces Off Day? This worked out alright, but no one was fooling me. Happy Get Your License Day also signified that I was exactly one year older than I was on Happy Get Your Permit Day and, therefore, one year closer to having grey hair and crow’s feet. In fact, I think I started dying my hair at 16 to avoid the fact that someday I would HAVE to dye it to cover up the greys. I figured that if I was always dying it then no one would ever have to know when it lost pigment. “No one” more specifically refers to me.

When I get past the fact that I am going to age whether I like it or not and I get past the trauma of my girlhood birthday party, I get to the place where I can’t stand that unnecessary attention is put on me one day a year. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my friends and family who want it to be a special day for me, but the point is that it isn’t a special day for me and there is no need to try and make it one. I didn’t accomplish anything by aging. Birthdays aren’t like college graduation or a wedding day or getting a new job. People are giving stuff to congratulate me on the fact that I can still breathe. Then they want to have a party to celebrate the fact that I am still alive. The whole idea makes me uncomfortable. I prefer to give people gifts when it’s not for a specific date or time. I’m not into rules or boundaries, so deadlines really aren’t my thing either. If I want to get a gift for someone, then I do and the surprise generally breeds more satisfaction than the gift itself.

This year came and went, as they always do. My birth year is one more digit further in history than I would like it to be. I am one year old, but certainly no more mature. I spent my birthday this year doing the same things I always do. I went to work, I came home, and everything that typically happens in between. The biggest change in my day was the amount of Facebook postings on my wall from people I never hear from and hardly recognize. I did give myself a get out of jail free card on going to the gym, but that was really because I was lazy and my birthday seemed like a worthy excuse to aid in my fated impending obesity. My lover and I went out to dinner, which wasn’t unusual since we don’t cook. He was as generous and thoughtful as he always is and won enough points for a particular gift in a robin’s egg blue box to keep in my good graces for a long time. With my birthday in the past, I can live out the next 364 days lying about how old I am until next year, when I will do exactly the same thing. At the end of the day at least I can find comfort in the fact that no matter how old I get, my aging lover will always be a lot older.