Summer Birthdays Suck

Today is my birthday. 

Annnnd you're singing that Beatles song right now, aren't you? It's okay, I understand.  If you would like to throw in a little air guitar to spice things up, go ahead.

 

My husband is excited when his birthday rolls around. Larry is actually excited for the entire month of September.   He is practically giddy with joy for the entire week of his birthday. My son is so ecstatic about his birthday that he starts talking about next year the day after. The exuberance in this household come September and October is so powerful that it could power a city block.

I barely manage a facial expression in June.

My birthday has never been a big deal.  My mom never went overboard scheduling parties, because we were usually moving in or out of a place.  My eighth birthday, for instance, took place the day we arrived in Germany.  Even if my mom tried to set up a birthday party, the timing was never good. People go on vacations, after all, so even if my mom actually wanted to throw me a party, people weren't around to attend.  But we were on a budget, and money didn't grow on trees, my mother told us repeatedly.

But then my mother was really obsessed with my britches. She thought I was too big for them, that I expected too much. We didn't have a lot of money at the time, but I was a kid and I didn't understand that. I should be grateful for what I got, she said, on more than one occasion. Maybe she was right, but I thought that being treated extra special one day a year wasn't too much.  How many other kids out there have to make their own birthday cake when they turn thirteen? I can't be the only one.

Even in college, my birthday would happen after everyone had gone home, so few ever remembered.  And when you're an adult in the workplace, not many people pay attention to birthdays. There were moments, over the years, where someone would surprise me with a piece of cake or remember it was my birthday, and I grew to appreciate those times. Most of the time, however, my birthday was just another workday.

I am not sure what I even expect from my birthday. That part has become muddled over the years.  Since most movies and television shows depicted "perfect" celebrations of birthdays, with the parties and the cake, that was probably what I wished for as a child. I never wanted a pony. I would have settled for cake and ice cream, then.  These days, a nice pinot noir with some friends would do. 

Finally I just stopped getting excited about birthdays. It wasn't really worth the small pity party I would feel obligated to throw myself every year when whatever I expected didn't happen.  I stopped mentioning their approach, I stopped thinking about them, I just...stopped. 

Except my husband and son expect me to be excited. They expect me to be giddy like they are, to trip around the house wearing the gossamer wings of the Birthday Fairy.  I try to share their excitement, but I am not always successful. It's not that I don't appreciate their enthusiasm; I do.  I'm just afraid.  Afraid to have expectations. Afraid to be disappointed. Afraid that my reaction, or lack of a reaction, will never be good enough for other people.

Afraid that I'm too big for my britches.