Happy Birthday!!!
I won't disparage you with a text message
I’ve always had a bit of a complicated relationship with my birthday— I think most of us girls do.
Or at least, most of us girls with complicated childhoods.
I remember being 17 years old and finding a journal from childhood:
On my 8th birthday I had written “I hate my birthday. I’m too much expectation.”
The grammar wasn’t sound and the words were spelled wrong, but the point stuck— these birthdays are surrounded with futile expectations, weird longings, and symbolism that a 8 year old can’t quite grasp.
My mom always said my birthdays felt weird because I was adopted— because I knew that my birth had some weird feelings surrounding it.
I’m sure she was half right. Adoption is simultaneously both amazing and beautiful and complicated and confusing.
I also think there’s something unique about exactly when my birthday falls. December 19th was always either the last day before Winter Break, or the first day of Finals, or the weird weekend in-between when everyone was home traveling for the holidays already but it wasn’t quite the holidays yet.
It’s the time of year, its the complicated childhood, and I hit the nail on the head when I was 8:
“I’m too much expectation.”
What I can say more eloquently now: There are a myriad of societal expectations that surround birthdays.
To name a few of the many: Who should be there, what you should do, where you should go, when you should leave, who you should leave with.
After writing that entry at 8 years old I remember crying and feeling weird.
Later that day I pulled myself together, emerged from the basement, and had a great day. But that doesn’t negate the initial tone of the day— the innate part of me that screams “Birthdays are weird!”
I don’t remember exactly what I did on my 8th birthday or how we celebrated, but I remember reading my journal entry from the following day.
It read “My birthday was good. Blake came over.”
I can imagine we built a pillow fort, played dress-up, or designed Lego castles.
Isn’t it funny that something as simple as hanging out with my family made my day better? Isn’t it funny that that’s how quickly things turned around?
Somehow I lived through the too much expectation.
When I turned 13 my mom threw me a surprise party.
In retrospect, it was really kind of her.
She had texted my two closest friends and asked them to come over, decorate my basement, and plan something special. We watched movies, and hang out, and did all the fun things that 13 year old’s do.
The problem was, earlier that day I had asked them to hangout—
It was my birthday, after all, and I didn’t have plans.
They said no.
They were busy.
I was hurt.
I felt abandoned and sad— why was I forgotten on my birthday? What was better than spending one day with me? Did they even remember it was my birthday? I felt all types of weird.
In a last-ditch, desperate effort to not feel forgotten I invited over another friend for the evening. My mom picked us up and we drove home in silence. I had unknowingly fucked up her plan by inviting a friend, and she had unknowingly fucked up my plans in an attempt to surprise me.
I wish I could say that this all immediately blew over— that I went home and was immediately surprised, set in a good mood for the rest of the day.
It’s half true— I did go home and immediately get surprised.
I think I cried when they jumped out. Not ferociously or for too long— but I remember telling them “I thought you abandoned me.”
What a funny thing for a 13 year old to focus on.
I just couldn’t quite reconcile the initial expectations, the failure to meet them, and then the later fulfillment of those expectations. It was too much for my 13 year old self to wrestle with.
When I turned 21 I celebrated inside.
It was COVID, what else could I do?
My friend and I stayed up late and drank champagne until our stomachs hurt.
We drank shooters of Pink Whitney and took (horrible) flash photos on our balcony.
We spent the night giggling and talking about boys— wondering what would be different if we weren’t living through a pandemic.
Dreaming about taking birthday shots at bars our fake IDs wouldn’t have worked at.
Although this might seem sad— like a lame 21st with only 1 friend and a few photos to show for it, I had a blast.
This was one of my favorite birthdays.
Sometimes I wish me and that friend still spoke.
By 22 I’d had enough of the quiet birthdays.
I wanted to do something big.
It was a few weeks after my birthday (you might find this cheating), well into January.
Everyone was getting back from Winter Break— feeling fed, happy, and ready to party.
I organized a whole event: I made a Canva invite, scattered pink glitter throughout my apartment, and dressed to the nines.
I bought bottles and bottles of Andre champagne to serve to our guests, and I invited 100 of my closest friends.
To my delight, most of them came!
It was a fantastic night.
Until I ran into my former best friend.
And until the girlfriend of the boy that sexually assaulted me chased me out of a bar and demanded 60 seconds of my attention.
60 seconds of my side of the story.
60 seconds of reliving the horror of that one night just for her to never breakup with him.
I went home and cried. It’s really still too much expectation.
When I turned 25 I cried over you— this isn’t that fond of a memory.
The year prior I’d done a whole thing on my birthday— invited friends out, saw my crush, had a few too many drinks.
This year was different.
This year my best friend was visiting and all I wanted was for the two of you to meet.
I wanted to show her how great you were, how you were kind and you cared, how you surpassed the ones that came before.
What does Chicago have on New York anyways?
For the record, I think you made a fine impression, but things just didn’t go exactly to plan.
We had planned to meet up before, hangout, have a drink or two, and then head off to dinner. We had planned this for a few weeks, me being particular about this exact date and about wanting the two of you to spend the entire evening together. An evening full of excitement and fun.
Maybe I was too particular. Or maybe you just didn’t care.
You called me 10 minutes after our reservation had passed, “I’m going to be late. I’m ok, I just got sad. It’s ok; I’ll still come.”
You strew these words and some others together.
And in the moment, I felt so bad for you. I felt bad that you were depressed and sad, I felt bad that I had made plans that required your attendance, I somehow felt bad for having a birthday.
This is what I meant when I said it was your world and I was just living in it.
No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t fix you.
That night you ended up showing up— it was mostly all fine. We had a fine dinner, fine drinks, a fine time, and fine fun, but it wasn’t what I had hoped.
I was so consumed with making sure that you didn’t get sad, and that my friend had a good impression of you that I was walking on eggshells, not letting my guard down.
I am too much expectation— that’s always how it was with you.
You and my birthday have that in common.
You’re probably thinking this isn’t fair.
You’re thinking about the trip to Mexico and the other night we all went out.
Isn’t it funny how it was always the smallest things that mattered the most to me?
The ones you couldn’t quite get right.
It’s my turn to recount things the way I’d like— it’s my world now and you’re not living in it.
I wonder if you have expectations surrounding your birthday—
I wonder if today’s weird for you too.
I wonder if we have that in common.
I wonder if most of us do.