Keep the Receipt for that Pity

Today, I am going to my very first birthday party.  For the purposes of this post, I define ‘birthday party’ as a premeditated gathering of friends for the sole purpose of celebrating my birthday.  That this is my first may not seem strange to most of you, unless you figure out somehow that I am well into my twenties.  I myself am aware that it might seem surprising.  I’ve told a few friends that I never had a party for my birthday when I was a kid, and they were shocked.  “Not even once?” they asked.  “That sucks.” 

Well, I am writing this post to reply to that righteous outrage.  Gratefully, kindly, lovingly, I have only two words to say: Stop that. 

Stop feeling sorry for me because I never had something you took for granted.  When someone feels sorry for me, I tend to take on that emotion and start feeling sorry for myself.  And I don’t like feeling sorry for myself, because I am not a sorry person and my life is not a sad one.  Yes, maybe I did have four brothers and sisters and we couldn’t all have yearly birthday parties.  Yes, maybe my birthday was in summer and it was hard to get all of my friends together for a celebration while they were out and about on vacation.  (This was the pre-facebook era; invites would have needed to go out by phone or by mail.) 

But I remember every birthday growing up having been a wonderful one.  I always got great presents, and I can’t even remember whether they were expensive or not.  My siblings were nice to me on my birthdays (or at least they tried to be), and I had great cakes.  For a few years, when my dad was working at the local public library, he brought home specialty cakes made by a coworker, beautifully decorated on request.  Then there was the year I made my own, a mound of crumbs with frosting dripped on top—I still laugh when I think of that one.  And I did have a few birthday sleepovers, which were that much more fun because they were reserved for a few true friends.  Even as a child, I never felt deprived because I didn’t have raucous, chaotic gatherings of kids I wasn’t related to and didn’t really know.

And now that I’m an adult, I’m realizing that I don’t much like parties anyway.  My actual birthday passed earlier this week with no more notice except a few good wishes and a day of taking care of myself.  The “party” tonight is really just a gathering of a handful of my very best friends.  Do I appreciate their desire to celebrate me?  With all of my heart.  But I refuse to let the thought that this is the first time be anything but joy.

I have no complaints about my life thus far, and if I don’t choose to remember the things that might have been lacking, don’t point them out.  Everyone has different ideas about what makes happiness, and if they can find it, great.  Don’t feel sorry for me; be happy with me.  It’s much better that way, trust me.