Thirty-four

It’s my birthday next week. I’ll be 34. 

I’m big on birthdays. I always have been. As a child, I carefully planned my birthday parties. Swimming, or bowling, or laser tag. Cake was a necessity. Angel food was my typical request because I fancied myself somewhat angelic, though I doubt my parents would have agreed. 

One of my most memorable birthdays as child was my eighth. I got new bedding which certainly seems a strange gift for an eight-year-old, but I loved it. When I got home from school, my mum had made up my bed with the crisp new linens. That night, I had a bath, complete with the pink bath bomb I’d also received, and slipped into a pair of new birthday pyjamas. All of it was perfect. My bedding smelled like the bath bomb for days after. If I close my eyes, I swear I can still smell it. 

A new bike for my birthday!

When I was in university, a friend told me about her aunt, who celebrated her birthday without fail well into old age. She’d spend a night in a luxurious hotel room, order room service, get a massage, and just generally do the things she loved to do. That resonated. I want to be like her, I thought when I heard that. 

But somewhere along the way, birthdays lost their lustre. I still love them, in theory, but when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, I find birthdays feel heavy. Why is that?

Recently, on her birthday, a friend shared that she didn’t mind getting older. After all, she said, she had it all. A house, a husband, two beautiful children, and a dog. I thought about that comment. In the past, it might have made me feel a certain envy. I might have felt less than. Deficient. A failure. I’d have judged myself for not having a home or kids. I’d have used those societally determined, largely inconsequential, accomplishments to measure my worth. I’d have told myself that because I wasn’t a homeowner or a mother, I didn’t deserve to celebrate my age because I wasn’t where I should be.

My dear friend, Heidi, took me for a ski on my birthday last year.

I am a planner. I like to know what lies ahead and this is not a recent thing. I was like this as a child. Knowing made me feel safe. And so I had a road map for my life. I knew when I’d be married, I knew when I’d have kids and how many. The kind of house, the job, all of it.

But of course, that’s not how life goes. I’ve learned that, and I felt genuinely happy for my friend. This because things hadn’t gone according to plan for me, but, lo and behold, I was okay with that. I was happy. C and I got married a full ten years after my “planned” date. The wedding was not the enormous party I’d envisioned as an eight or ten or twelve-year-old. And all of it was beautiful and wonderful and perfect. Somewhere along the line (and, as you know, I credit the move to Beaver Creek with much of this) I realized that things happen when and if they’re meant to.

A birthday card from a student at Nelnah Bessie John School.

But before that realization there was a period when birthdays were hard. A period when I allowed myself to be guided by societal and self-imposed timelines. Birthdays meant another year had passed without me reaching a target I’d set. And, maybe mostly, birthdays invoked a subconscious longing for the naïve delight I experienced as a child opening a box surrounded by friends and family. That innocence of believing the world had order.

These days I’m not bothered by arbitrary goals, but the nostalgia thing is still there. Birthdays feel like an outfit that’s just a bit too small. One that tugs in the arms or constricts the belly. I feel like I want to celebrate, like I want to make the day a big deal, but at the same time, I feel as though birthday celebrations at my age are childish and frivolous. And selfish.

Last year, C and I went to a friend’s cabin for a quiet birthday celebration.

A birthday for a child is put on by parents and friends. The child is the centre of everyone’s attention. And it’s fun and lovely.

But then you’re an adult, you realize that you cannot expect others to make you feel special just because it’s that day, your day? The lingering expectation that good things will happen on your birthday because they did when you were young sets you up for disappointment. The expectation that people will call, that they’ll send a gift, that they’ll remember, that they’ll have put the day aside to celebrate with you. All of that seems a bit much to ask. And those expectations are the very thing that can cause birthdays (and other celebrations as well) to crumble. 

So maybe that’s the lesson I’ve learned. The specialness of a birthday for a child is not the same as the specialness of a birthday for an adult. Because, although I firmly believe birthdays are special, I think I should take a page from the book of my friend’s aunt and take charge myself. It’s up to me to make the day a good day and really what that means is feeling lucky to be alive. It means looking around and celebrating where you are, acknowledging the people who are important in your life, feeling thankful, feeling special. What better day than a birthday to give yourself permission to be happy?

What is a birthday without cake!?