My thing about birthdays is that I cannot stand being the focus of so much fuss. My mother would spend so many of my birthdays kicking me outta the house, forbidding me to come inside, or it’d ruin the surprise of all the decorations she’d put up just for me. No.
I mean, I thank her for wanting to deliver that kind of parenting, but my life isn’t for the cover of Good Housekeeping. But because of that, my best birthday is to be left the fuck alone. Truth.
Hell, I remember my 30th birthday where my housemates did the same shit, and all that old resentment came welling up; the sullen anger, the resistance, not wanting to leave my room when they had the cake ready. No.
No, I don’t tell people about my birthday, because then they’d feel compelled to buy me a drink or take me out to dinner or whatever, and I can’t stand for that. Can’t righteously accept the obligation. Nobody should feel compelled to do anything for me that they organically didn’t already want to do. No.
Therefore, I keep mum about my birthdays. Why did I take today off? I have PTO to burn. Truth, and a lie of omission.
So, otherwise, today I bought a suit. An actual suit with coat and pants. Because I’m a man of a certain age and I need a suit with a modern cut. Primarily for family wedding next week, but secondarily because every man needs a suit. That was a gift to myself.
And then later I ate sushi by myself in a room of 100 strangers. Because that’s how I celebrate my birthdays. Sushi by myself. And to be left the fuck alone.
Is it normal for 53-year-olds to be so antisocial as a coping mechanism? Should I be seeing a therapist? Don’t answer.