Not My Birthday

I've been 30 for almost nine months now. Birthdays are not my thing, and haven't been for many, many years.

Part of it is that I absolutely hate concentrated attention on me. A room full of people looking at me? No thank you. (Maybe that's why hostessing is so draining for me - I feel like I get too much attention, and that's not even really about me.)

Part of it is that I don't think it's impressive to arrive at yet another birthday. So I managed not to die for one more year. This is not impressive, nor is it appreciated, since it's not what I want.
And another part of it is that birthdays are supposed to be special and wonderful and a day all about you, that's happy from the time you wake up until the time you go to sleep. Since I was a single-digit age, that's not how my birthdays have rolled.

When I was about three or four, I recall playing with a stuffed dog in the living room near the steps while my brother and mother tried to convince me it was my birthday that was coming up, not my birthday party. My mother really wanted me to understand the distinction between the two. I just wanted some fucking presents.

For years all I wanted was a slumber party for my birthday. Never happened. The night after my older brother's bar mitzvah, three girls slept over, but two were family friends in from out of town, who were older than me and allowed to do things that left me behind. That's the closest I ever came to a slumber party.

I also wanted a surprise party. In elementary school I was often running late in the mornings. Mostly I was dancing around my room, or reading. But sometimes I was practicing being surprised and perfecting the, "For me?! I had NO idea! Oh, but you shouldn't have!" poses in the mirror.

When I was sixteen, all I wanted was a name ring. They were outrageously popular on Long Island then, and I loved them. My parents got me some other jewelry that was both not a name ring, and not jewelry I liked (what a spoiled brat). But I was totally crushed to realize I didn't get the name ring. When my grandparents called me that night around dinnertime to sing happy birthday to me from different phone extensions within their Queens apartment, I burst into tears and cried so hard my mother had to take the phone out of my hand. I cannot adequately convey just how badly I wanted this name ring.

Ultimately my parents took me to the jewelry store and exchanged the stuff they got me for the name ring I wanted. I still have it - it's on my nighttable right now, and still fits. My mother told me she'd just wanted to get me "grown-up jewelry" - for when I was an adult. But I wasn't an adult then. I was sixteen. I wish she'd saved it and given it to me when I actually WAS an adult - I'd have liked it then.

When I turned 18 I was away at college in upstate New York. I was miserable there; to the point that I seriously considered hitching a ride anywhere else but where I was. Again, my grandparents called and sang happy birthday to me. Except I wasn't in my dorm when they called. No no, don't be silly - I wasn't out partying. I did not (and do not) party. Most likely I was just too depressed to get off my bed to answer the phone, or at the library reading. I kept meaning to call my grandparents back to thank them, but never quite made it. Less than two months later my grandma was suddenly dead, and I hadn't talked to her since August.

I don't remember my 21st birthday, but I know from looking at my resume that I was working at a law firm then.

When I turned 30, my parents had come all the way across the country to California, but were in LA visiting my brother, not in San Francisco. I said that I don't want birthday celebrations, and it's true. But to come so close and miss? I wish they would have just stayed on the East Coast, rather than come that close.

I've never thrown myself a birthday party, never wanted to. My friend and I extracted promises from each other that we will NEVER tell waitstaff at a restaurant when it's the other's birthday. Really, if my birthday were just never acknowledged, that would be ideal. I could stop cringing when people ask when my birthday is, and stop cringing each year ON my birthday.

I used to work with a girl who absolutely hated her birthday with a passion I've never seen. If anyone gave her a gift, she sent it back unopened and never spoke to that person again. She's hardcore. I'll take the presents. Though I'm not the type to buy myself a present on my birthday, I love good presents.

Yesterday, I bought myself a present. Even though I'm not 31 yet (or, thirty fun, as some might say), I'll just go ahead and consider this an early birthday present for myself. For a couple of years now, I've been looking for a more professional coat. This is the most expensive piece of clothing I've ever bought in my entire life. I was so nervous about it, I called my brother and asked him to meet me at the department store to look at me in it. Who else but your big brother can you trust to tell you when you look like shit? The salespeople who earn commission? Right. Aside from the pattern giving him a headache, he thought it looked nice on me. So did I. So I bought it, and have smiled as I've looked at it, hanging in my closet.

If somebody wants to buy me a present for my birthday in three months, they can get me a scarf that matches my new coat. But please don't say "happy birthday" when you give me the scarf. Thank you. And happy birthday to you. I'm happy to celebrate anyone's birthday but my own. And I buy really good presents.