Worst Birthday Ever

I have never been much of a birthday person.  I don’t like parties, and I don’t especially like attention for doing nothing (and, while being born was something, it wasn’t something that I had much to do with.)  But I think that birthdays are something that should be acknowledged.  It’s the one day of the year that belongs to that person alone.  Not Jesus, not Martin Luther King, not the Easter Bunny.  Oh, I mean Jesus. 

This year, I knew that something awful was brewing for my birthday when my longtime friend insisted on informing me that, if I had any kind of party in my honor, no one would come, as I have no friends.  This is something that this person loves to regularly tell me, as well as how nobody really likes me, that no man will ever love me, and that my personality is severely lacking.  This was on Tuesday. 

On Wednesday, my friend who had made plans for a fun birthday dinner told me that something more important had come up, and I didn’t mind rescheduling, did I?  I guess not. 

On Thursday, my shrink told me that I was doing it all wrong. 

On Friday, just before we went out for a work birthday lunch, my coworker informed my boss that I didn’t really want him joining us.  I hadn’t said that, but nonetheless, my boss was hurt, and it made for an awkward lunch.  I’m sure that made me look great. 

On the big day, I had class for 4.5 hours.  A man who sounded just like Grover lectured, via video, about the ins and outs of evidence.  And midway through, he got a frog in his throat that he refused to clear.  Just terrific.  Afterwards, I had to go grocery shopping, where the rest of the shoppers were clearly in the throes of March Madness.  They were acting terrible.  Fighting, giving dirty looks, refusing to move out of the cereal aisle…it was all I could do to get out of there with my sanity and oatmeal. 

My best friend of 16 years did not remember or acknowledge my birthday.  She was busy reading the Hunger Games, I deduced from her Facebook posts.  I decided right then that my best hope was to just shut it down for the day, go to bed, and take solace in my family party the next day.

My family party started with my sister the chef complaining almost the moment that I walked in the door that she “had” to cook the entire dinner.  Just to be clear: I didn’t ask her to cook the entire dinner.  In fact, the only request I made were vegetarian sauerkraut balls and a dessert, neither of which she cooked.  I requested nothing specific for dinner.  Literally.  Because I didn’t want to hear any complaining about my “demands.”  Nonetheless, I soldiered on, and put up with my mother sniping at my sister, both complaining about my dad like they would rather he just die, and then my other sister complaining about how she had to set the table, which is normally what I do at Sunday dinner.  My brother came in and when asked how he was doing, complained about how much income tax he has to pay.  Because he is so rich.  I am not joking about that.  And it is a huge sum that he has to pay, but that just goes to prove how rich he is.  While I thought that this First World problem only occurred in fake stories such as Diff’rent Strokes or Silver Spoons, it also happens on my birthday.  He was also disgusted by how early we were eating, because he eats at ten at night.  And God forbid he change his habits on one day for someone else. 

In the midst of that, dinner was ready, and it turns out that there were not enough places for everyone to sit at the table.  My mother invites the entire town to dinner, but makes no plans for how everyone is going to sit down.  My sister, the one who had insisted on being a martyr about a meal that no one had asked her to prepare, told my brother, the one who complained about the early hour at which we were eating, that he just couldn’t sit at the table.  Why she chose him is a mystery.  That didn’t seem like an appropriate solution, so I offered to squeeze in between my parents.  Then, the sister who had complained about the terrible burden of having to set the table announced that there were no more plates.  So to be clear, this was my birthday dinner, nobody had anything pleasant to say to anyone else, and I had no spot at the table, and no plate.  My sister, the complaining chef, said in her most sarcastic voice possible, “Well, we should all just relax.” 

So I decided to solve the problem myself.  Since no one could find it in their hearts to be genuinely nice to me on the one day that they were being asked to do that, I said, “That’s okay, I’ll leave.”  And I left.  No dinner, no cake, no “Happy birthday to you,” no statement that they anyone was glad that I was born, or that they were happy to celebrate with me.  In fact, it was the opposite.  Everyone wanted to make sure that I was VERY CLEAR on what a personal sacrifice it was for them to even show up, much less be pleasant and kind.  I figured I might as well just hang out by myself. 

So, the good news is that it can only go up from here.  The bad news is that this is my life.