Only those closest to me know the date. It's protected on Facebook, and I've done my level best to restrict the knowledge of it everywhere else. The majority of my co-workers don't know when it is, and those that do know that not only do I not celebrate it, I don't even like to talk about it.
I'm pretty passionate about it, but no one knows why. Since the 45th anniversary of my day of arrival on this orb has arrived (I buried this article, written in 2012, way back in my archives so it wouldn't be found), I guess I can talk about it now.
I had a good childhood. Not many friends, but I had a couple, and they were around for a party and cake and presents and the what-not. At least, that's what the pictures tells me. Don't remember much about those days, and it doesn't really bother me that much. Only thing I do remember was this balloon I had; an orange kangaroo named Hoppy. It was a birthday thing. It was something My Kid got, I guess, when I was a baby and it was tradition to get it out and blow it up and put it on the table. Hoppy's long gone, but it's the one memory I still have.
As I got older, birthdays became more of a family thing. My older brothers, all moved out and on their own now, would come over and we'd have cake, ice cream...you know, the usual. Mum insisted they come over on my birthday, not the weekend before or after, but that day. A birthday, to her, wasn't a holiday that you could celebrate any other time. Birthdays were meant to be celebrated on your day of birth.
That was the case, at least, until I turned 12. My birthday was on a Saturday, which conflicted with The Big Game (Panthers were playing someone, dunno who, at Pitt Stadium) and my brothers decided the game was more important that my birthday. They went to it and came over to the house Sunday. It was at that point, I decided, I didn't want any more parties, didn't want to celebrate it, didn't even want to acknowledge the day. You had something better to do, go do it.
I wonder sometimes if that's part of the reason why I loathe football. No, wait. It's because football is slow, boring, and only good for putting me to sleep. That's why I hate football.
After that, Mum tried to do something for my birthday, but it wasn't the same. No parties. No cake. I didn't want anything to do with the day.
I tried to have some friends over my 21st, but since I don't drink, it was kinda boring for them. Looking back at it, it was more just an evening with friends hanging out over at my place (something else that happened very rarely as I got older). We had pizza, sat around and talked and didn't do much else.
My birthday, to me, became a quiet day of reflection. If I could, I'd take the day off work, claiming I was sick or just in need of a day off. For close to 20 years, no one knew of the day. Mum, bless her, tried to do something for me. We'd end up going out to dinner someplace, but as she was getting older, even that fell by the wayside.
Then she got...bad. Onset of Alzheimer’s. Dementia. She had to be institutionalized while I tried to find a nursing home that could take care of her, because I'd done all I could.
On my 39th birthday, I stopped by the hospital after work, as I'd done for nearly two months by this point, to spend some time with her. For whatever reason, the nurse was making notes on her sheet, and she asked what day it was. I told her. Mum sat there, and started mumbling the date, wondering why it was so important.
I told her it was just another day. The last thing I wanted was for her to remember it was my birthday and feel bad, somewhere in her mind or heart, that she was there and could do nothing for me. If she would've thought about it, and remembered what day it was...the pain would've been too much for both of us.
When I turned 40, I was...seeing someone. I was never in a relationship with someone on my birthday, believe it or not. There was a very dear friend whom I loved, but did not love me, that I would go out with (strictly as friends) on my birthday, but the best I ever got was when I kissed her on the cheek. In fact, she'd blown me off several times, so I'd hoped I could spend what I considered a milestone (40 is kinda impressive, I think) with someone who loved me.
Won't go into details. Let's just leave it at...I was alone that night, as usual. Once again, my birthday was just another day.
When that relationship ended, I'd sworn that I would live the rest of my life alone. Kept that promise too, for all of about six months, before I'd met Julie.
My angel.
It's one of life's little ironies, but our birthdays are eight days apart. Same year, same month, separated by only a few days. I think that's incredible. Our first year together, we decided to go to Lake Geneva the weekend between our birthdays, just the two of us, for an overnight. It was an amazing weekend, even if I didn't get the most amazing pizza in the world. (That's another story for another time.)
That year, I spent it with Julie. Best damn birthday I'd had in a long, long time.
Shortly after that, I'd moved out here to DeKalb, out of the only home I'd ever known into my own apartment. It was just down the street from her. A little while later, I got a job (out of work for a year and a half...yadda, yadda, yadda...that story's elsewhere, go look it up) and was coming home from work on my 41st birthday to a surprise party, thrown by my stepdaughter.
It was the first surprise party anyone ever threw for me.
That following year, I was in Phoenix for my birthday, flying home after being away for two weeks. Naturally, we had to go to Applebees for dinner, where everyone was waiting.
These days, the kids know...or at least, they used to know...when my birthday was. Sometimes they get a little too wrapped up in their lives to remember my day, but that's okay. I don't expect anything from them, and I don't say that in a bad way. They've got their own lives to lead, and their own bills to pay. Save their money for themselves. If they think of me that day...which would probably constitute a miracle...I'd be okay.
Julie will wish me a happy birthday several times that day, even though this year, she'll have to work that night. S'okay. I'll be there when she gets off work, and we can sleep in the next morning. To be by her side makes me happier than anything.
Some of the friends I have on Facebook will post something to my page, but those who've known me longer will know all I ask them to post is a smile. Back in my DeviantArt days, I asked my friends there not to wish me a “happy birthday”, but just put a smile on my page. All I wanted is, if they thought about me, I'd hope it'd bring a smile to their faces, and just share that smile with someone else. That was good enough for me.
So now you know. Now maybe you'll understand why I hate, loathe, detest and ignore that day. I'll let it pass quietly as I start another year. If you happen to read this, and know when my birthday is, and you want to wish me something, just smile. That's all. Share a smile and I'll be happy.
After all, as Paul said, it's just another day.
