youth, speed and trouble

As excited and eager as I am for the promise of a New Year, the very start of one also signifies my birth date which lands at the end of January. I love my birthday, that is to say I adore it deep, deep down inside me, in a part that no one ever gets to see anymore. And why you ask do I feel the need to shy away from something that used to be so wondrous?

Well my birthday’s have never gone to plan. And though when I was younger they were enjoyable since I share the date with my closest cousin Paul, since hitting those teen years they’ve been filled with nothing but anxiety and stress. You see growing up I was never allowed to have birthday parties with my friends and when I was finally given consent to, I think I must have been ten or eleven, I was only ever permitted to celebrate at home with my oldest friend Stephanie. I thought it would be much easier when I turned eighteen, having my license and all but no, they almost always brought disappointment by the end of the night, leaving me with a sour taste in my mouth and on the brink of doing the unthinkable.

My twenty-third was what broke the camels back. I chose a hip little vegetarian joint that served the most delicious food and at a really cheap price. But the night was a disaster with no one appreciating the food, some even sneaking off to the pub next door for drinks. They acted like pretentious little shits, too good for this apparent dump I had chosen and embarrassed to be seen in that part of town. I vowed after that shamozzle of a birthday to never celebrate ever again.

And if I did, I would not carouse with people who would not appreciate my efforts.

So I spent the years huffing and puffing, wasting away my precious youthful years, telling anyone who would listen how I hated my birthday and how I refused to honor it with any kind of celebration. When deep down it was all I yearned for; to jubilate the occasion with fervor. But I didn’t and I still do not want people to see that side of me. I’d rather keep the pretense up, the facade of something to protect me. For others to know the truth I feel like it would be nothing more but sheer embarrassment on my part, or worse, pity. Pity for this loser twenty something who has a handful of friends yet who stays home alone on her birthday, pretending always pretending.

Image via Pinterest

So here I am.

Anxious, stressed – severely afflicted as this day approaches, left fumbling my thumbs while I try to make excuses and elaborate stories for my choice in not celebrating again this year. To just be somewhere else, that is all I want for this day. To get out of this city, far out of this very state and go somewhere for a small soiree would make me so happy. I’d settle for any Australian city or beach, as long as it was interstate but I would just cherish a flight across the seas! Perhaps the Maldives or Phuket. Bali even. A week, somewhere far away, to step on feathery silken sand and breathe in the salty air. Rejuvenating our souls and delighting in Mother Natures gifts, living in the fast lane, enjoying our twenties while we still fucking can. My dream would be to live it up in New York, amongst family and friends, people who I know would let loose with me completely and see to it that I had the most wonderful time.

So, what to do? At this point today I may have zero dollars for that very day since my wealthlfare check comes in next week and my birthday rolls in on the following. And that check is completely spoken for. Which means the decision may very well be out of my hands and will I truly not afford to create any fanfare over it. Including some nonchalant dinner in a neighboring suburb. Which means I will most likely crawl into the fetal position, cry in a dark corner, ignoring calls from the one or two friends who remembered – well if anyone actually remembers since last year only one person bothered to call. The others left those empty well wishing wall posts on Facebook since it kindly reminded them that that day was indeed my birthday.

Oh joy! Life is sure looking swell,



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