Birthdays have a certain level of humiliation built in to them: inviting people to your party makes you feel like Oliver Twist standing with his hands cupped begging for a scrap of food; looking for the perfect moment to soft drop to the people at work that today is indeed your day puts you in a state of desperation as you pass noon without the news being broken; asking your friend to take several photos of you while you get increasingly frustrated with your appearance threatens to ruin the whole affair.
The people who “don’t care” about their birthdays are absolutely right to live that way, unbothered by the horrors of trying to organize a day all about yourself, and yet I am incapable of sharing that feeling. I am naturally an over-carer about things and a lover of occasions to dress up. And yet my expectations create a bitter and inevitable sense of disappointment. It is, after all, still just any ol’ day. This year, I woke up pre-bittered. It’s no secret this has been the hardest year of my life, and holidays and special occasions have lost their sparkle, and, at times, become something to endure rather than celebrate.
I arose in my new (and gorgeous, although still unorganized) room in Stoneybatter, swept open my curtains to greet the gray Irish sky, and thought Dear God, I’m twenty-five. 25 is young, by any metric, but it is regarded in popular culture as the end of the growing-up period of brain development. This is a grim prospect, as my brain has never been worse: my screen time is up into the 6 hour range, my concentration span is around 20 seconds, and sometimes I can’t remember what I had for dinner the previous day.
I recently moved from a room with visible patches of mold on the ceiling to a moldless room, and I have been feeling significantly less fatigued in the consequent days, and my brain also seems slightly clearer. Perhaps it’s a placebo or the vitamin D from the sun finally peeking out from behind the thick Dublin clouds. Nonetheless it was an encouraging sign: things can get better. My frontal lobe’s not peaking at the moment, but perhaps it’s also not at a permanent low. Plus, that brain development stuff isn’t exact, right? For me, it might still be developing till 26…right?!
Social media is certainly the mold-on-the-ceiling of the modern world. How much can it hurt? you say. It seems harmless. Then you’re reading a book on a Saturday morning and suddenly you’re on Instagram, having picked up your phone with no conscious thought at all. Then you’re writing an email at work and suddenly you’re on Instagram. I’ve checked my phone several times while writing this very blog. I don’t know if people make birthday resolutions, but mine would be to get off that damn phone. Otherwise my frontal lobe doesn’t stand a chance in this world.
And, despite these big questions of life, the small ones also persist: Will enough people want to split a pitcher of margaritas with me at my birthday dinner? Will any interesting characters from my past shoot me a birthday text? Should I shave my legs for my birthday even though it’s slightly too soon for my next shave?
If a long time goes between big delights, there, too, are smaller ones: someone from work coming up the stairs with a bouquet of sunflowers (For me?!), a funny orange bird on the walk to the Luas, that birthday photo when it finally turns out good.
It’s April. Let the sun come out. Throw your phone in the Liffey. Make a payment towards your credit card. Drink a margarita. Have a cry, it’s not really your birthday without one.