Once I had tried to believe that I was a fairy, or a princess, or one of those things that rarely happen. That was of course when I was still learning to understand why I could not have a cake, while other friends on their birthday did, an entire cake to slice a song with, and perhaps from that trim an age, I grew an unconscious defence mechanism, about things I would like to have and could not. Cakes and laces are things that make a dream, and well, dreams are infamous for being unreal. I grew up, rejecting the festoons and fandom in planning a birthday party.
Then I grew up some more and rejected anniversaries. Like travel destinations, my mates and the dates around them changed. I did not celebrate year after year my first kiss, well of course I did, but only the adventure of it -- of how it felt, the lips touching like caramel coating a boat of neatly lined nuts, and finally the sweet crunch of a delicate bite. Kisses changed with the people I kissed. It did not make any sense to dab a generous layer of highlight over the whens.
Sometime back, when I felt all suited-up in my studied elegance, I wished the mother on her child's birthday, for having undergone the pain, pleasure and patience of giving birth. She must have thought of me as a nerd, while collecting crumpled paper-cups from obnoxious corners of the party site. That was adolescence, which I now forgive as. I will now tell you of what happens when people get excited about birthdays, as a dependable adult.
Phonathon -- that is what the day is reduced to, with redundant questions like, "What are your plans?", "Where is the party?" and "What gift did you get?" Special people on their special day have asked for special attention from me, while I, mean that I am, laughed at them inside my head, and decided to gift them me, but what a waste. Just as you are about to share a moment of mutual lazing longer, the electronic circus unfurls with special sound effects, and the monotony of same answers eat into the invisible festoons. I am a cup of steaming coffee held by the birthday person and feel like yelling, "Drink me up before I spill the beans!!!"
Apart from some well-wishers who remember us (or not) all year through, the rest seem like an army of nonsense, even the poor mobile phone cannot battle. I am wrong, sorry. The day begins with a barrage of probability questions, "What will you do? Where will you go? Who are invited? Where's the treat?" and ends with unacceptable shameless questions, "What did you do? What did you have? What did you get?" all of which would have made sense if the person facing the battery was taking it willingly. Mercilessly at the end of having to politely respond to courtesy questions and wishes, ate into the "special day" time.
The day ends as uneventfully as it began, with the sunrise and the moon drifting away somewhere it could not be caught. It was spent as usual with having to have banter with strangers, an ask to handle the heart with special care, marked "Fragile" for those who cared to notice. They were privileged to participate in a negligible moment of the celebration called life, and the ordeal called living.
What's so happy about a birthday, anyway?
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