Happy Birthday to ... Me?
Today is my birthday. I am 36 years old - I am officially middle aged.
Every year I approach my birthday with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. I look forward to the family meal of one of my favourite foods, the cake, the gifts. All of that is lovely.
And then there is the trepidation. It's not about getting old, because I don't particularly care. Not yet any way. It's about the excessive amount of attention. Everyone who knows feels obliged to send you good wishes, Facebook is inundated with happy birthdays, the phone runs hot all day. This tells me that a lot of people appreciate me, and wish to show it. Great! Thank you everyone! So why does the idea of all this leave me feeling embarrassed and awkward.
It occurred to me this morning that it might be because I don't deserve congratulations.
A birthday celebrates the day of your birth, but is that really an achievement? I had not part in my conception and very little say in the manner of my birth. I certainly don't remember it. I bet my mother does though.
Or does it celebrate your life? Well, let me work that out. I moved out when I was eighteen, and now I'm thirty-six. So Mum and Dad supported me and nurtured me and raised me for literally half my life. Then I had a brief period at University of self sufficiency, and I met my wife when I was twenty-four. We moved in together within 3 months of starting dating and all of a sudden I wasn't so self sufficient anymore. My wife supported me and nurtured me and fed me.
I'm not trying to negate responsibility for my life or actions, both good and bad. I am my own man, and get on as best I can. I think there's a country and western hit in there somewhere.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that birthdays, at least in part, should be celebrations of the mother who bore and birthed you, of the parents who raised you, and the partner who holds your hand as you walk through life.
So to my Mother, Father, Wife and everyone else who has contributed to this crazy ride - Thank you.
Every year I approach my birthday with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. I look forward to the family meal of one of my favourite foods, the cake, the gifts. All of that is lovely.
And then there is the trepidation. It's not about getting old, because I don't particularly care. Not yet any way. It's about the excessive amount of attention. Everyone who knows feels obliged to send you good wishes, Facebook is inundated with happy birthdays, the phone runs hot all day. This tells me that a lot of people appreciate me, and wish to show it. Great! Thank you everyone! So why does the idea of all this leave me feeling embarrassed and awkward.
It occurred to me this morning that it might be because I don't deserve congratulations.
A birthday celebrates the day of your birth, but is that really an achievement? I had not part in my conception and very little say in the manner of my birth. I certainly don't remember it. I bet my mother does though.
Or does it celebrate your life? Well, let me work that out. I moved out when I was eighteen, and now I'm thirty-six. So Mum and Dad supported me and nurtured me and raised me for literally half my life. Then I had a brief period at University of self sufficiency, and I met my wife when I was twenty-four. We moved in together within 3 months of starting dating and all of a sudden I wasn't so self sufficient anymore. My wife supported me and nurtured me and fed me.
I'm not trying to negate responsibility for my life or actions, both good and bad. I am my own man, and get on as best I can. I think there's a country and western hit in there somewhere.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that birthdays, at least in part, should be celebrations of the mother who bore and birthed you, of the parents who raised you, and the partner who holds your hand as you walk through life.
So to my Mother, Father, Wife and everyone else who has contributed to this crazy ride - Thank you.
posted by Brett at 10:46 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home