I’ve realised that I spend far too much time questioning whether or not I care for my birthday. There’s a part of me that loves the idea of going all out, celebrating yet another year of controversial choices and gaiety. But then a more impassioned part of my subconscious prefers the idea of staying in bed, ordering a Chinese takeaway and watching Hallmark movies on YouTube.
It’s been like this for several years, and my inner circle remains at the brunt of my quandaries. I can never commit to a definitive plan, which is annoying because my birthday is on Christmas Eve. People have things to do, places to be, and I appreciate my friends taking time out of their festivities to come spend a tragic hour or two with me.
Another issue I face is that I have friends in different social groups. Getting them all together in the same room has proven to be a mammoth of a task given everyone’s conflicting schedules. I’m sure it would also feel like the first day of school, introducing yourself to each other with an awkward piece of trivia about your lived experience.
Hating one’s birthday isn’t just a me problem, though. The heavy, sullen feeling is a very real trigger for a number of individuals that dread the occasion each year.
So yes, the 24th of December will force me to ponder every scratch of existentialism. And while I’m not depressed, I will be alarmed.