At my age, birthdays are at the height of their awkwardness. No one really knows what to do for my birthday, and I never feel right telling people its my birthday or throwing my own parties. As a kid, birthdays were treated as a day where I got one gift and got sent on my merry way. Once we even had a party for my birthday. We linked it with my father’s birthday which effectively means we had a party for my father’s birthday. The cake said Happy Birthday JJRC – which is both my and my father’s name (how clever). My parents invited all their friends – and some of htem had kids our age. We would play in the other room while the living was packed with adults and cake. They called me in at 11pm to get sung to and blow the candles out with my dad. Then I was ushered out of the room – cakeless. The cake came about 30 mins later. The adults had to get cake before the kids… Doesn’t that sound magical?
Flash forward 19 years – Let’s check out what happened to JJRC on June 19, 2007. I went to work, and only 1 co-worker was aware of my birthday (gee thanks facebook), and she says happy birthday loudly – as my supervisor walked into the room. I saw him look over with interest. Thirty minutes later – he leans over the cubicle to ask me where I want to go for lunch – I tell him I don’t really have a preference – he chooses Poco Loco (later I learned that he took me to this Mexican restaurant because he thought I felt most comfortable there… because I was Hispanic).
The news start to spread, and I get the awkward passerbys – oh hey man, I didn’t know it was your birthday… happy birthday. I would prefer nothing get said.I go home. I think my parents gave me a present. I don’t remember, but my sister begins to ask where we’re going to dinner. I feel dejected and annoyed. I say I don’t care, and a massive fight erupts… on my birthday. My father in his classic patriarch style says – “Let’s to go Tom’s Restaurant (the one from Seinfeld). I want burgers.” Fine! We get street ready and go to Tom’s things are awkward for a bit, and then we start talking and telling stories… until the table behind us erupts into this huge fight and someone storms out of the restaurant. They only leave the restaurant 5 minutes before we do. They effectively ruined dinner. We walk home building up the mood, and start home.
As we approach the stoop, we notice an older man sitting on the steps. It was my Uncle George. He wasn’t aware it was my birthday, but he decided to swing by randomly in a mild stupor. Attention quickly shifted to him for the rest of the night. My birthday was no longer important, but by that point all the damage had been done – if only we had found Uncle George on the way home from work.
This is the reason I hate birthdays. This was not the only upsetting birthday, but one of many. It’s never smooth events, people don’t remember, and things will go as unsmoothly as possible. Perhaps I should petition to change my name and date of birth, but I might need to visit a mob crime for that… and be relocated.
JJRC
