Okay, the title is a bit misleading. I’m not a fan of birthdays in general. And I have good reasons. Before we discuss the mental toll of another year passing while accomplishing zip, there’s the physical toll of birthdays.
I’m 21, and over the past 21 birthdays, I’ve only had three where I wasn’t physically ill. The day before my 16th birthday, I went outside and sat on my mom’s car. After a few minutes of sitting in the breeze, I go back inside. Guess who woke up the next day with a headache and a fever? That’s right, the universe’s sweet 16 birthday gift to me was malaria. In fact, over the last five years, the least worst birthday experience was my 18th, which was a year after my parents separated. I was left alone and I had a pizza. Best birthday ever.
Before you think that my bad birthday juju is limited to just my birthday, think again. If someone close to me is having a birthday, it activates. On my kid brother’s 15th, I accidentally poured hot oil all over my foot and got a botched injection, all in the same day. I spent the rest of my brother’s birthday holding back vomit and being unable to walk unassisted or sit on half my ass. Fun times.
When I see people all happy and giddy for their birthday, I’m envious. I’ve literally never known that. The best I can hope for is that the gods don’t see it fit to smite me with plagues when my only offence was being born. I didn’t ask for it.