WarmToTheFlaw
12-21-2010, 11:11 PM
Note: This is definitely not my best work. It's a decent first draft that I don't think that I'll revise. Having said that, I would like feedback if you can provide it. Thanks and enjoy. . .
I hate my birthday. Not just this birthday, but every birthday that I can remember. I have never had a ‘happy birthday’.
As a young school boy, I had grown envious of the children whose birthday fell on a schoolday. On a schoolday, your classmates celebrated your birthday with you. There was always a cake; all day it would sit at the front of the room, building excitement in my peers. And then at the end of the day – the teacher would cut it. Cheering would follow and then they would serenade you. Twenty-two smiling faces are obliged to praise you when your birthday falls on a school day. And the biggest smile of all? That’s reserved for the birthday boy. Even the kids who had a weekend birthday were fortunate enough to have the comfort of knowing that in a year or two, they’d
be the one to receive this honorary celebration. I never received such an honor. My birthday shares the date with the Winter Solstice; it is the twenty-first of December.
I always received presents (even though my birthday is so close to Christmas) but I also learned early on that the presents didn’t matter; it was the people. Well-meaning relatives would ask me what I wanted them to mail me and I would make up something that I wouldn’t mind having. But secretly, I didn’t want their presents. I wanted their presence.
Nonetheless, I have, for the most part, spent my birthdays alone. In the evening, I occasionally go out for dinner with a family member whose night opened up, or a friend who finished wrapping, or both. If I do end up getting both to show up, it’s odd. Neither of these two people know of anything that they have in common except that they both know me, but the conversation always ends up on the topic of things equivalent to the weather. Oftentimes in these situations, I forget completely that it’s my birthday and am only reminded of it at the end of the night when someone will tell me to have a happy birthday. My answer is consistently a slow: “Yeah … Right … I will.” And I never do.
Nowadays, birthdays don’t mean much to most people, but they still do to me. I am fixated on having a happy birthday like I say I will. If I fail to have one, I must wait a whole year to try again. And by then, I’ve forgotten tactics that I came up with last birthday. What worries me most of all, even though I am relatively young, is that I have a set amount of tries. I do not have unlimited birthdays.
Still, I try to have happy birthdays, but I have finally come to accept defeat: I just won’t have one. So this year, I have decided to have the worst birthday that I can. The backwards logic behind it is that in future years I will be able to compare it to this one and be thankful that it at least wasn’t as bad as this one. Thus, I head out the door.
I leave so quickly that I don’t realize that my arms and head is exposed until I’m already marching outside. It’s freezing, but I keep going. I clench my teeth, This is going to be my worst birthday ever, I assert to myself. Snow is whipping around and I can’t see a thing. I fold my arms up into my armpits. I keep pressing on and realize once more that I’m unsure as to where I’m headed. I’m trying to think of the worst place possible and I can’t. I’m trying to keep walking and I can’t. So I stop.
I pause for a moment and then turn around. I head back towards my warm home following the tracks that I laid. On my way back, I realize another thing. I’ve failed. But this time, I haven’t failed at having a joyful birthday; I’ve failed at having an awful one.
I smile. It’s certainly not a happy birthday, but it’s a start.
I hate my birthday. Not just this birthday, but every birthday that I can remember. I have never had a ‘happy birthday’.
As a young school boy, I had grown envious of the children whose birthday fell on a schoolday. On a schoolday, your classmates celebrated your birthday with you. There was always a cake; all day it would sit at the front of the room, building excitement in my peers. And then at the end of the day – the teacher would cut it. Cheering would follow and then they would serenade you. Twenty-two smiling faces are obliged to praise you when your birthday falls on a school day. And the biggest smile of all? That’s reserved for the birthday boy. Even the kids who had a weekend birthday were fortunate enough to have the comfort of knowing that in a year or two, they’d
be the one to receive this honorary celebration. I never received such an honor. My birthday shares the date with the Winter Solstice; it is the twenty-first of December.
I always received presents (even though my birthday is so close to Christmas) but I also learned early on that the presents didn’t matter; it was the people. Well-meaning relatives would ask me what I wanted them to mail me and I would make up something that I wouldn’t mind having. But secretly, I didn’t want their presents. I wanted their presence.
Nonetheless, I have, for the most part, spent my birthdays alone. In the evening, I occasionally go out for dinner with a family member whose night opened up, or a friend who finished wrapping, or both. If I do end up getting both to show up, it’s odd. Neither of these two people know of anything that they have in common except that they both know me, but the conversation always ends up on the topic of things equivalent to the weather. Oftentimes in these situations, I forget completely that it’s my birthday and am only reminded of it at the end of the night when someone will tell me to have a happy birthday. My answer is consistently a slow: “Yeah … Right … I will.” And I never do.
Nowadays, birthdays don’t mean much to most people, but they still do to me. I am fixated on having a happy birthday like I say I will. If I fail to have one, I must wait a whole year to try again. And by then, I’ve forgotten tactics that I came up with last birthday. What worries me most of all, even though I am relatively young, is that I have a set amount of tries. I do not have unlimited birthdays.
Still, I try to have happy birthdays, but I have finally come to accept defeat: I just won’t have one. So this year, I have decided to have the worst birthday that I can. The backwards logic behind it is that in future years I will be able to compare it to this one and be thankful that it at least wasn’t as bad as this one. Thus, I head out the door.
I leave so quickly that I don’t realize that my arms and head is exposed until I’m already marching outside. It’s freezing, but I keep going. I clench my teeth, This is going to be my worst birthday ever, I assert to myself. Snow is whipping around and I can’t see a thing. I fold my arms up into my armpits. I keep pressing on and realize once more that I’m unsure as to where I’m headed. I’m trying to think of the worst place possible and I can’t. I’m trying to keep walking and I can’t. So I stop.
I pause for a moment and then turn around. I head back towards my warm home following the tracks that I laid. On my way back, I realize another thing. I’ve failed. But this time, I haven’t failed at having a joyful birthday; I’ve failed at having an awful one.
I smile. It’s certainly not a happy birthday, but it’s a start.