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I don't like my birthday. I don't remember that I ever did. I liked presents and cake, sure, but there's plenty of that stuff at this time of year anyway. I never felt my birthday was anything special.
When I was young, my mom saw my birthday as too close to Christmas to be spent with friends, because Christmas Is Family Time (for all my little friends as well as me, apparently). I had chums over for parties until I was 12 or so, but a week or so before my birthday. The day itself has always been spent with family: from my parents and grandparents and brother when I was younger to my parents, Andrew, my one remaining grandma and the aunt who lives with her now.
And in college and since I moved to Manchester, I've always gone home for Christmas like the dutiful daughter I am, which means I still never see friends on my birthday, so I think a lot of them don't know exactly when it is and because of my childhood understanding that it was a nuisance to be crowbarred in around Christmas, I've never wanted to say much about it; I'm convinced no one cares or wants to acknowledge it in any way. I know that's silly -- I should give my friends the credit they deserve for being good people -- but there's nothing like doing something the same way you have for your whole life to make you feel like all the worst things you thought you'd grown out of.
It's a little thing, stupid like so many are when I try to articulate it: of course I was affection and I want to feel special, everyone does: of course I'll pretend otherwise when I fear I'll be disappointed, many people do that. But being able to acknowledge it does mean I'm all the more overjoyed at how many people are wishing me a happy birthday already, still halfway into my first cup of coffee of my thirty-first year.
When I was young, my mom saw my birthday as too close to Christmas to be spent with friends, because Christmas Is Family Time (for all my little friends as well as me, apparently). I had chums over for parties until I was 12 or so, but a week or so before my birthday. The day itself has always been spent with family: from my parents and grandparents and brother when I was younger to my parents, Andrew, my one remaining grandma and the aunt who lives with her now.
And in college and since I moved to Manchester, I've always gone home for Christmas like the dutiful daughter I am, which means I still never see friends on my birthday, so I think a lot of them don't know exactly when it is and because of my childhood understanding that it was a nuisance to be crowbarred in around Christmas, I've never wanted to say much about it; I'm convinced no one cares or wants to acknowledge it in any way. I know that's silly -- I should give my friends the credit they deserve for being good people -- but there's nothing like doing something the same way you have for your whole life to make you feel like all the worst things you thought you'd grown out of.
It's a little thing, stupid like so many are when I try to articulate it: of course I was affection and I want to feel special, everyone does: of course I'll pretend otherwise when I fear I'll be disappointed, many people do that. But being able to acknowledge it does mean I'm all the more overjoyed at how many people are wishing me a happy birthday already, still halfway into my first cup of coffee of my thirty-first year.
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I realised I hadn't checked the time difference but I guessed and tried to tweet it when it was at least technically already your birthday there.
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