Every year before my birthday I get inexplicably anxious. It’s not that I don’t like getting older, or that I fear aging; I am genuinely excited for my forties and each year I feel I become a little more myself. But birthdays do give me that deer-in-the-headlights feeling.
I fret over what I want to do for the day to make it special. I always have, ever since I was a kid. As if one day could make up for a year of inattentiveness. I remember at ten worrying about which aunts and uncles would make it to my family party. At sixteen throwing a big sleepover with popular girls from school I barely knew. At 24 I ran a half marathon on a treadmill in a pub in Surrey in front of friends and strangers. At 30 I had my first baby.
Some birthdays were more trivial than others but there was always something to make them memorable. Twenty years now into being an adult I wonder if I am finally ready to enjoy a day of simply being. This might be a case of teaching an old dog a new trick, but I’m open to it. All of my partner’s life he has celebrated his birthday with pizza and a movie. 16? Pizza and a movie. 25? Pizza and a movie. 32? Pizza and a movie. Why can’t I have that?
My partner thinks birthdays are triggering for me because I scrutinize my life. What am I here for? Am I savoring this precious space that I take up? Am I living up to my full potential? Am I doing what I want to be doing, what I…