(WARNING: minor rant post)
“What are you doing for your birthday?”
“What are you hoping to get for your birthday?”
“What do you want to do on your birthday?”
I’ve heard at least one of these questions every day for the past fortnight. And the answer to all of them is: “Nothing.”
I’m not just being contrary and anti-social for the sake of it. I truly don’t want anything that would be feasible. Parties, meals out with the family, even such things as presents…they genuinely don’t interest me. But cake, they insist, you must have cake–I don’t even like cake!
What I want can’t be confined to one birthday. Hell, I’d give up ten birthdays to get what I really want. And what that is, I hardly know, either, sometimes.
They’re too kind, too kind.
Last week I was advised of a takeaway place that did bookings on Fridays and Saturdays. I don’t know what’s special about it, but it was put to me as such.
I forgot about it. Then I was reminded, and because I hated having to tell my family again that I didn’t want to do anything at all on my birthday, I agreed to go along with it.
This morning I was told I ought to invite my grandparents as well. And yes, I ought. I’ve got no problem with that. But why go out for a meal I don’t want in the first place, and take two extra people to pay for? And what about my ‘best friends’? They’d like to be involved, too. Sure they would, because they like me so much. They think I’m sweet and kind and generous. (Just to clarify, that was sarcasm.)
The whole idea is ludicrous, and I’ve no idea why I’m doing it.
This afternoon I was told the table hadn’t been booked yet, and I ought to be doing it. Okay, I didn’t get that message. Why don’t I pay for everyone, as well? With the money I’m hoping to receive from distant relations who’ve no idea what else to get me. An excellent notion.
And now I recall I don’t even remember the name of the restaurant I’m supposed to be booking a table at. Upon enlightenment, I realise the restaurant in question is located in one of my least favourite places, due to reasons I don’t like to go into.
And suddenly I wonder truly, what I’m doing this for. Me? Because it’s my birthday? No; other people. Who think I’d like to be doing something on my birthday. Who think I ought to be enjoying myself out with family and friends instead of moping in my dark room all day on the computer.
You know, I’d love to spend my birthday moping in my dark room all day on the computer. It’s actually where I’m happiest, and where I like myself best. So why on earth am I lying to everyone who loves me?
Such is the life of a writer who can’t balance people who love her and her own inclination to write forever.
And it’s still going to be my birthday, and I have to do something, and I have to book this restaurant. Wish me a happy night out, people.