I turn twenty tomorrow.
One of my goals for this month was to “have the best birthday ever.” It doesn’t feel like I could reach that goal, even if we change the definition of “best” to fit my particular situation.
People have asked “what are you doing for your birthday?” My answer: nothing. I don’t have the desire to do anything. I don’t want to throw a party, I don’t want to get dressed up and go to dinner, I want things done for me. I want the dishes to be clean, I want to be wrapped in a blanket and brought hot chocolate, I want to feel as though it is my birthday.
Birthdays don’t feel the same as you get older—they lose their spark. It’s no longer parties, friends, gifts, cake. If I want any of that, I’d have to do it myself (and let me be clear… I don’t want to do that for myself).
It seems as we get older, birthdays become more melancholy. I’ve cried on my birthdays the past few years. It’s just another regular day, much less a celebration of life. I will wake up tomorrow, another day older. I will get myself ready to walk to my university campus. We won’t sing the birthday song in class. It won’t be on any calendar. It means nothing to those around me.
Birthdays lost their importance partially because celebrating the process of aging makes less and less sense to me each year. Each year it’s a demarkation of greater responsibility, less attention, and more wrinkles.
Wishing on the candles for money to pay my rent instead of wishing for my crush to give me the biggest hug to ever exist in the universe.
The world changes with each birthday, and not for the better it seems.
I don’t know what it is, but my birthday doesn’t excite me anymore. I will wake up and the sky in Toronto will be gloomy as it normally is and I will be another day older.
So what does my twentieth birthday mean?
I don’t know. I could say almost nothing but that’s not true.
I want it to mean something. But I know it will not be special. I won’t wake up to 10,000 balloons, or breakfast in bed. My cat will still have fleas, and I will still have class to attend.
As I reflect back on this year, not much has changed between nineteen and twenty.
It doesn’t feel special. And I’m not sure how to make it feel special.
I want it to mean something. I want it to feel special.
