When I was a kid I hated big birthday parties. My social anxiety was such that those crowds of children always filled me with dread, and the idea of being forced to attend one (I had to be forced because I simply would have chosen not to go) was akin to going to the dentist or some other utterly unsavory experience. I agonized over it in the days beforehand, psyching myself into finding something to plan after the prescribed party date and time so that I could look forward to that. In the end, I attended their parties, sometimes letting go and having a good time, sometimes holding tight to my shyness and going through the minimal amount of motions to remain under the radar. As a child, I’m not sure how I felt or knew I was different – I simply did. It informed everything, holding me back as much as it enabled me to develop other forms of entertainment and socialization.
As for my own birthdays, happily taking place outside of the realm of school thanks to the late-summer timing, I kept things extremely small – usually only Suzie and one or two others joined in some excursion afforded by the limited number of people I wanted to be involved. Without a big group, trips to the Great Escape or a beaver sanctuary (because I was obsessed with beavers – ah, the irony) were an option – something that wouldn’t be possible if we’d included every single one of the 25 or so kids that were in an average class then. For that reason I was always grateful that my birthday was tucked into the end of August – no huge to-do of having an entire classroom of people singing Happy Birthday while I handed out cupcakes from a recycled Christmas box. It also afforded me the option to be different, and not go the traditional route of a big party with a bunch of kids playing silly party games, then sitting around and having cake and ice cream.
I’ve maintained that preference when it comes my birthdays as an adult. Small affairs, often only with Andy coming along, are how I’ve done things for the past twenty years. The one time I did try to throw an actual birthday party was for my 30th, and I sent out an invitation that touched on a long-ago suicide attempt which seemed to dampen attendance: hardly anyone showed up – proof that other people may have felt similarly about big birthday parties. No matter, it re-enforced my instinctual desire to celebrate things in a quieter, more intimate way, and since then that’s basically what I’ve done. There was a fun New York City jaunt for a Broadway show a few years ago, and a magnificent stay at the Lenox Hotel in Boston for my 40th– both were spectacular in excitement level, and minimalist in approach and participation.
For this year, I feel even less inclined to indulge in any sort of grand gesture or happening, content to spend a few days in Boston with Andy, finding our way in this new world and exploring old and new haunts alike. Like our anniversary, things will be done in a simpler way, eliminating stress and worry, and allowing for more genuine enjoyment of the day.
