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I hate my birthday

June 23, 2017

I hate my birthday. Ever since I was little, my dad didn’t like having other people in the house making a mess. So I would have my birthday at other people’s houses. Maybe my uncle’s place, or best friend’s place, or another friend’s place. It always felt like borrowed birthdays. It was also after school let out in the summer, which meant I didn’t get the requisite classmate celebration. At work, apparently people in my job class don’t get celebrated. (Incidentally, we’re also the only job class where our salary has stagnated year on year, and recently got decreased. No inflation adjustments here!) Every other job class gets celebrated, but ours. Give money to celebrate everyone else’s birthday! But nobody will even acknowledge yours. So I’ve always hated my birthday. Partly expectations? Hopes? That people will care?

This year I need to spend my birthday celebrating my baby’s birthday. I don’t want him to hate his birthday the way I hate mine, so I want it to be a big deal. Good for him. But for me, it just adds insult on injury. Here I am, at a big milestone birthday. And not only does nobody care, but now I need to focus everyone on his day. For the rest of my life, this will be his day. I want it that way. But it sucks so much for me.