Go! Go! Go shawty! It’s your birthday, we gon party hard, cos it’s your birthday… Lol. Okay. That’s the farthest I can go with the lyrics of 50 Cent’s hit song. A groovy song that sets you in the mood to party silly and hard on your birthday. Unfortunately, the song never works its magic on me; I’m never excited about my birthdays. Birthdays are a reminder of my setbacks, a reminder that things didn’t work out as planned, a reminder that I’m getting old, without achieving any of my very big dreams which sometimes scare me.
On my birthdays, I’m always thankful for the gift of life, and at the same time, moody. I’m usually very reflective and sober. Most times, I want to be alone but the people who love me, despite my flaws, never allow me be sober for long. They flood me with love on my special day. Love so overwhelming, till the point I shed some tears— happy ones.
When did this lack of excitement start? Since I clocked eighteen. Not like I was ever a birthday person. Before eighteen, all I always wanted was to be treated specially (no punishment, no scolding, no hard labour… Just pampering) and prayed for on my special day. Nothing more, nothing less. Good thing is, my birthday was usually during the long break from school— I owe fate for that. There were times I forgot my birthday on my birthday (please, don’t roll your eyes at me. Shit happens).
Before I officially became an adult, I had my life mapped out. Here’s what it looked like;
Graduate from secondary school at 16-17.
Get into a higher institution at 17-18, cos you know, smart pants, acing my exams at one sitting shouldn’t be a problem.
Get my first boyfriend in my 3rd year at 20, or after university at 21-22 depending on whether I studied Agric or Nursing.
Finish service at 22-23.
Get a job immediately after service, work for a while to attain financial independence before getting another degree, cos you know, all that brain can’t be wasted.
Make my first million before I’m 25. Own a nice home and car before I’m 30.
Get married to my one and only boyfriend (worst case, third boyfriend cos you know, life happens) at 27-35.
Have four kids and adopt two.
Build my mama a school and others…
Occupy a top position in my field. Be a model for young girls and teenagers in general. Own an NGO. Make an impact in the world and have my name written in the sands of time.
Looking back at my ridiculous list, I find it laughable. I must have thought life was just in black and white. I didn’t think I’d have many challenges. So you see, why I totally stopped being excited about my birthdays after 18, is cos I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, and I hated that I wasn’t in control.
Once upon a time, I would confidently share my age with those who asked and I got comments like “you’re very wise for your age”, “you’re such an old soul”, “you act and look older than your age”. Such comments acted as confidence boost, and left me always pleased.
What about now? Except I’m comfortable with you, I just tell you I’m in my early twenties cos I think it’s stupid to lie about it. Truth be told, most times, I have to deduct my birth year from the present year to get my present age. Yes, it’s that bad, and for three years straight, I kept thinking I clocked 18 on my last birthday. Tragic, right? And Just when I was gradually beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel cos you know, one more year and I’ll be done with school, Covid-19 happened, and ASUU decided to add some toppings with their strike. How perfect! Anyways, all I know is that I’m deducting this year from my age and I won’t be disclosing my age freely, until I complete my first degree program, and I’m financially independent.
Well, well. I’ll make deliberate effort to be excited about my birthday, next year. So help me God. I might just end up taking special birthday pictures too, and maybe for once, friends won’t have to stress, digging out pics from the last decade to celebrate me with. Lord knows how many of my potential customers they’ve sent off with some of those embarrassing pictures (which I honestly find cute and funny)… In case you’re wondering what service it is I offer, I offer backbone services. I can be your backbone, if you’re invertebrate. My services are for men only, PLEASE!
To my star girl, Nkechinyere, thank you for being my ginger and for infecting me with your excitement for my birthdays. You’re the reason I have more birthday cake pictures than I’d have had. Thanks for the peppered chicken and chocolate that year.
And that concludes my story of why I’m never excited about my birthdays. Who else can relate to my story? What do you think of birthdays? Do you find them overrated? Feel free to drop your comments.