Another Year

Another Year

Today is my birthday. I’m thirtysomething years old.

Honestly, I have to work out exactly how old every time and I’ve not been keeping count, nor caring about my birthday for well over a decade now. Often I’ll completely forget it’s even happening. It seems to mean more to my family than to me.

Remember as a child you’d start counting down how long it is until your birthday the moment Christmas is out of the way? I never thought back then I’d ever not care about my birthday when I was older. Birthdays were the second most exciting time of the year! Even in my early 20s, when a birthday was a time to go out and get drunk with friends, it didn’t matter too much because – well – I could just go out and get drunk with friends anyway. I didn’t need to wait until an appropriate celebration to do that!

I’m not fussed about parties. I don’t like birthday cake (actually, I don’t like most cakes in general). It’s not that I don’t appreciate cards and gifts and the attention and stuff because I do, and it’s not even the reminder that I’m steadily marching towards inevitable death I don’t like. I just don’t think it’s really that necessary to mark the occasion and it’s a lot of fuss for what is really just another day.

Other people’s birthdays, though? They’re great.

0 Comments

  1. I go kind of up and down on birthdays. Some years I don’t care, some I actively despise, and others I look forward to. A bit. (Quite like a spot of cake; can’t abide parties.)

    I do forget what age I am, though. After 30, someone seems to stamp on the accelerator. I’m still getting used to not being 30-something any more, and I’ll be 45 next month. I’ve started thinking of things being “only” 20 years ago. It’s terrifying.

    Best not to think about it. Stupid birthdays.

    Oh. Er. Happy birthday, by the way.

    Duncan Snowden

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