About different birthday parties throughout my life.
Maybe I’m already twenty-six. It’s not that I was born twenty-six years ago, it’s that I was conceived twenty-six years ago ― which should be at the beginning of January according to experts. Of course we celebrate our birthday because it is when people met us, but they are stealing nine months of existence from us. We could go to discos and drive nine months before if we celebrated conceptiondays instead.
I can’t remember attending many birthday parties during primary school. And I think I only had one myself once. Neither other people’s parties nor my own ever interested me. In our country people pile up in flats and my friends didn’t have gardens or paid for a park for their parties. Our parties were about some wotsits in the dining room and, if we were lucky, some balloons around us.
Being older I’ve been invited to parties by some friends, acquaintances and people I didn’t like ― and who didn’t like me either, let’s face it. Maybe in other countries it is funny, but when they invite you to a birthday party here you are forced to sit at a restaurant table where you can only talk to five people, pay for your dinner ― because they just invite you to be there ― and buy a present, and I’ve seen people enraged because an indirect friend hadn’t brought them a present. What an obsession with presents!
Moreover, people get really annoying calling, asking, pursuing you and you have to do something mega-special and show the world you are having great fun because some years ago your mother was breathing at her contractions. I don’t need the suffering of someone in the past to create an event.
That’s why at sixteen I resolved not to tell anyone else when my birthday is. It is the best way to get rid of pressure and enjoy your covert birthday. But I’ll explain this another day, I love keeping you in suspense.
Non-rhetorical question: Which birthday party of yours or any other person will you remember forever for good or bad?