A very happy unbirthday to me

Every day that isn’t my birthday, I sigh with relief. It’s not that I’m scared of getting old – I’m actually very excited about being able to wear comfortable shoes and ill-fitting leisure wear without being scorned upon by my peers. And don’t even start me on the thrillingly lazy prospect of using a commode.

What bothers me about birthdays is all of the fuss: the cards, the presents, the parties and, most gruesome of all, the obligations. There is no other day in the year when I would so much as consider mixing completely incompatible groups of friends, let alone work colleagues, in a tiny enclosed space. More so I would never sentence myself to any situation whereby my presence is suddenly so illustrious that the mere act of blowing out candles rouses applause.

Birthdays are a performance, a Broadway extravaganza with no interlude and no chance of escape. And I'm no Ethel Merman. Every other day of the year, my mostly serene disposition is an accepted (and possibly admired) part of my persona. But, on the magical day of my birth, demonstrate even a hint of introversion, disinterest or modesty, and the world feels rejected. Give me unbirthdays any day.