Wednesday, 30 May 2012
I really do not like my birthday. Like most men in their late 30s and early 40s, I get the blues around the very thought of my birthday and the reflection on one’s lack of achievements. I wanted to have achieved so much by now and I have achieved very little. Each birthday just brings that lack of forward momentum into full focus, in crystal clarity so that even the most unobservant person could not fail to miss it. As a result, I do not bother celebrating my birthday. My family are not so obliging though and I am forced to sit through a ‘party’ and the gift-giving that I have expressly asked they do not do.
It is nice to see the birthday greetings on my Facebook profile, simply as it is recognition that I have somehow made it onto someone’s radar as a blip worthy of noting, but Facebook is the exception to the rule. I find some comfort in the fact that I have been acknowledged in some small way but, although I am not against people knowing of my birthday, I would rather the event be ignored by everyone. Perhaps one day, when I have earned some acclaim, I will change my stance because my birthday will not be such a glaring display of my complete failure in life; for now though, let me be the miserable old fart who hates his birthday.
Until next time…