Thirty six candles

Ugh..  What is up with birthdays?  How come they bum me out so much?  I swear they didn’t used to fill me with dread.  I am certain I enjoyed them when I was little.  All the fuss, the glitter, the cake and the presents.  Or did I imagine the joy?  I do certainly vividly recall running to the toilet once, at my sixth or seventh birthday, when catching the vibe that a celebratory song was coming my way.  The cake was being cut by the time I got back to it and my mum had a definite “where have you been?” frown on her forehead.  I sighed at the Snow White dwarves’ little house as it was cut in half to be shared with everyone in my class.  Hmm..  On the flip side to this, I do remember enjoying showing off on the dance floor quite a bit.  Rocking out to the Bare Necessities as much as the next kid, or very possibly just a little bit harder.  Definitely maybe too seriously.  Over throwing my head back and laughing at the kids entertainers, because obviously they were the best entertainers the world of me and mine had ever seen.  And of course, loving all the food, because as the fussiest child I have ever known, and it being the late eighties, my party teas probably consisted of nothing more than white breaded, crustless jam sandwiches and party ring biscuits.  Not a carrot stick or grapes cut into eighths in sight.

So I guess you could glean that on the whole I did enjoy those sugar filled occasions.  But now, during these middle-aged days, I find myself running back to hide in the proverbial bathroom.  I think it’s all that fuss I now don’t like.  Have never much liked.  But then again, could it actually the lack of enough fuss that troubles me?  Was it stupid to raise expectations of what a birthday should be in my head?  I have probably watched too many sentimental tv shows where everything is peachy keen and glorious.  And to make matters worse, I have been thrown some corker parties in the past.  A joint shindig with my dad and sister went down well aged 21, and my husband threw me a cracking surprise 30th, a full 4 months after I stopped being 29.  I was genuinely surprised.  Especially at how much clearing up I had to do afterwards.  Ungrateful cow.  Did I moan about that too much?  Probably.  Who’d want to throw me a party like that every year?

So the other day we arrived at the annual, re-occurring quiz question of “what would you like to do for your birthday this year?”.

“Nuffin'” said the stroppy wife to the caring husband, speaking with a slight east end twang and hoping said husband will crack this code and translate the one worded response to mean “Astonish me with jewellery/a night in that fancy restaurant/a weekend away/a whole week away.  Oh, and blow up lots and lots of balloons”.

But of course, caring yet not really listening husband, who now reads something funny about POTUS’s barnet on his phone, has missed the subtext.  He takes it as red that absolutely nothing should be done about said birthday so that the wife does not turn into a moaning witch from hell.  So I’ve blown it and it’s my own darn fault.  But I will state that it really is unhelpful that men are from Mars and women are from somewhere else.  Why can’t anyone mind read yet?

And why can’t I just fess up and say, “YES, here is the truth!”?  Why can’t I state, unashamed, that I want a gargantuan fuss made over me?  Not just a little one.  Or sometimes none at all.  That I want flowers and chocolate and lots and lots of presents and hand-made cards and I would love the kids to bring me breakfast in bed, even if the thought of crumbs on the sheets makes me feel extremely unwell.  Last year I made my own birthday cake and I considered purchasing my own decorations for this year so the kids don’t get sad that we are not in fact celebrating.  I planned to put them up before they woke up on the day and pretend it wasn’t me, so they’re surprised and excited.  Certainly more excited than me.  Bah, humbug.

And ugh…  Another year.  Another number up.  Gaining on something I can’t see and escaping a naive existence when I thought roller skating discos were the best sucks.  I will now be in the “less safe for you to have children” bracket.  In the “up to age 55” health zone, and not the “21 to 35” which I rather liked.  And apparently now I can no longer absorb calcium and my muscles will start to slowly but surely start to lose mass and deteriorate.  What the hell is that about?

So you know what I’ve decided?  To shut up.  And guess what?  This thirty-sixth birthday wasn’t so bad after all.  It wast a big fuss, but it wasn’t nothing either.  But I won’t risk being bummed out come 2022, so I have a plan.  I shall recreate my glorious youth, when I eventually get around to completing this to do list and actually turn forty, and throw the best goddamn kids party ever.  For me.  With all the trimmings.  If you want something done you have to do it yourself.  Grown up emotions are so over-rated.  I want to be euphoric and thrilled and giggly and dance my face off.  With jelly and a magician and party bags and everything.  I may even host it at a wildly inconvenient time on a Sunday morning too.  Or maybe not.  I only have four years to plan it after all so maybe I’ll play around a bit with timings.  What’s not to obsess about?  It’s not like I care about birthdays anyway.