This now means I am 37 years old, and one day.
Very few people registered that it was my birthday. Very few were actually informed. It passed a lot of friends by. Not a single person at work knew the “importance” of the date.
I just don’t do birthdays. Other people’s – yes; my own – no.
Not sure why? I care not about age. I’ve always been of the opinion that, with the exception of hair, teeth and brain cells, you should accrue more of everything the older you get – thus adding greatly to your life; your experiences.
I guess I fall in to that “would be a psychologist’s dream ticket” camp – in that I regularly over compensate for any nerves or uncertainties, by gregariously dominating attention – the very loud voice helps. Yet at the same time, I hate the idea of being centre of attention – just because of an act of nature.
I also hate the whole gift receiving thing. People should never buy me anything. My dad, when approaching 60 just a month ago, summed it up best:
“Son, if I really want something, I’ll buy it for myself today.”
Which doesn’t really help when trying to get something for him – but then, I can’t complain as I feel very much the same. Amy hates it, so I set up a pinterest board to guide for such occasions. It worked. Score!
Maybe next year I’ll tell people. Update facebook with my date of birth – isn’t that the way others are usually reminded? I might even throw a party. I might even pretend I’m actually interested – because that is the key. If it’s your birthday, I’ll be interested. I’ll go where you want to go, eat what you want to eat and drink, lots, of what you want to drink. It all seems too much like unnecessary bother to be arsed with my own.
There, I said it.
I just can’t be arsed.
I’ve written this as it is quite clear that, even though I am a miserable bastard, others do seem actually happy to pass on their best wishes on a day like yesterday. It shouldn’t take Amy posting a picture of a birthday cake for them to do so. I should just let people know.