Birthday Blues

The gifts have been opened, the shots have been drunk, and with that, I bid adieu to the early twenties, and have officially crossed over to the late. After a wonderful day filled with baseball, sunshine, friends and well wishes (literally, hundreds of them), I was floating on air and I had fallen in love with my birthday. However, just as with love, I was left with a feeling of anxiousness, uncertainty. Birthdays are stressful; a day that we all love and dread at the same time. Once the fake ID is no longer required, the years that pass start to give you whiplash similar to the of a cute boy passing on the street, leaving you to ask yourself, where did it (he) go, and how can I get it (him) back? I yearn for the experience and wisdom that can only come from those passing years, but dread the expectations, the status quo that come with it.

And of course, to go with the one side of my attention seeking personality (that fights daily with the other that takes comfort in isolation), I had to have an elaborate birthday plan; one that would give attention to me, but more importantly take away from the reality of getting older. By doing this, I would not only create more anxiety, but create more pressure. For whatever reason, birthday’s are a trip down memory lane back to high school, a popularity contest with yourself to see how many people “care” about you. I feel childish and foolish for feeling this way, but I can’t help it. It’s an unfair test, but it is one regardless.

As I sat there at our large table with my sister, her husband, and a reserved sign that kept falling over, every minute that passed was a shot to my ego. Every time someone came over and asked to take a chair, salt was poured on the wounds of insecurity. 25 people asked, that’s too much sodium for even the biggest salt lover. Where the FUCK were my friends?

The bar forced me to take an early reservation at 10 (and those of you who know me know I don’t go anywhere before 11:30), and an entire hour had passed, an hour of me feeling as though my friends didn’t care about me. This is not true, of course. They are just always late — as am I. At the strike of 11, and after a rude blonde had taken a chair regardless of us saying they were reserved, it was as though someone had opened the floodgates and all my friends came pouring in. Sweet relief. So many great, amazing people came (and the six degrees that separated them all) and the waves of people continued for the rest of the night. My birthday was incredible.

The next day, the blues hit with the same force as my hangover, and I realized that not only did amazing people come in waves, but so did texts en masse of “sorry I can’t make it, have fun!”. This is such a characteristic of the time we now live in. With text messages, bbm, gchat, email and the constant ability to get ahold of someone, we have seen a drastic increase of people flaking on plans, easily backing out with words on a screen, not having to face the person on the other end. I am not innocent of this by any means, and when you are on the receiving end, on a day that means just a bit more to you than any other night, it hurts. It might be stupid, and petty but it hurts nonetheless. Maybe I’m greedy, maybe I’m acting like a child, but on the day that without it you wouldn’t exist, you are allowed to be.

The birthday blues come in many forms: post long weekends, vacations, concerts or music festivals are most familiar for me. They hit you when you have something so fun and exciting planned, you have the build up, and then just like that, it’s gone. Back to work, reality sets in. Of course it’s not as bad as you think, and more fun things (like BONNAROO) will come in no time, but god damn it’s my birthday and I heard somewhere that meant I could cry if I felt like it.