Shreya Sen-Handley | Why Celebrate B’days Well Into Our Dotage
In the case of my eldest child who pooped panic-green Meconium on his way out, when my body started fighting the alien invasion it thought he was, it was my husband’s unstinting care that got me through 33 hours of agonising labour, rather than any ministrations (or lack thereof) on the hospital’s part
Why do we celebrate our birthday when there’s little we did that day that deserves congratulations? I tossed and turned in my mother’s womb with such impatience that I got the umbilical cord wound around my neck, nearly strangling myself. Saved by a caesarian, my bumpy ride into our world ensured I approached it forever more with irreverence. What it didn’t make me, however, was the hero of my birth. That is always the long-suffering mom, and sometimes the support act.
In the case of my eldest child who pooped panic-green Meconium on his way out, when my body started fighting the alien invasion it thought he was, it was my husband’s unstinting care that got me through 33 hours of agonising labour, rather than any ministrations (or lack thereof) on the hospital’s part. Though medics can also be the heroes of our birthing sagas, the one person it rarely is, is the newborn! So, why on earth do we celebrate ourselves on the anniversary of other peoples’ heroism?
Having said that, uplifting occasions, especially ones dedicated to feeling good about ourselves, are literal lifesavers in these dark times. Even if delivery-day revelries appear illogical, the truth about humanity is that if we don’t hold space for ourselves in this chaos, no-one else might, so, celebrating birthdays are, in fact, essential to our wellbeing. With the calendar crawling with dates earmarked for worldwide commemoration, every day an International Cheese/Cousins/Campanologists/Carbuncles Day if not something else, we’re left with little option on days to call our own.
Besides, as you slide into middle-age and have kids to boot, you’ll find ringfencing dates well-nigh impossible. You’ll hear yourself promise your friends, “We should have that coffee/chat/knees-up pronto”, but tomorrow never comes, y’know. The one day we can hold on to annually, therefore, with the blessings of convention, to do things we find pleasing with people of our choosing, is the day of our birth.
Despite our best attempts, and many memes on self-love that social media regurgitates, the truth is we all crave external validation, and nothing does that better than the celebrations of self that are birthdays. You know what else helps? Whilst festive food, the bedrock to every great birthday, lifts the spirits, as do libations for some, a well-planned gift, proving that you’re seen by your people, hits the spot too.
Yet, as lovely as presents are to unwrap, they have their pitfalls: From faking fondness for something that frankly horrifies you — E.L. James’ collected works, e.g. — to finding a discreet new home for it so no toes are trampled, to realising that someone you believed knew and valued you for who you are, hasn’t the slightest clue! This can be avoided by dropping everyone from your birthday party who won’t first complete a quiz on your interests, ruthlessly eliminating anyone who thinks you might like knitting, Guinness, or lemon drizzle cake. Or you could just tell ’em what you want, what you really, really want, à la the Spice Girls.
Living in Britain has helped me appreciate another great British institution, the friendly but firm Gift List, which leaves no room for doubt about desired tributes. Call it a wish-list if you’re squeamish, sticking only the smallest frills on it you forgot to gather on your yearly slog. For my birthday this weekend, I’m confident my family will make me their always-scrumptious chocolate cake, as well as eminently frameable handmade art, without my having to ask. But this year, I’ve also requested a trio of those newly issued vintage-look Agatha Christie books. The Queen of Crime was so prolific that if I limit myself to just one per birthday, amassing her entire oeuvre (all of which I’ve already read but lost along the way) will require more years than I fancy I have left!
Yet, that on this post-50 birthday I can enjoy life while thinking with equanimity of death, reveals how birthdays themselves have morphed wildly over the decades. If you’re of a certain age you might agree, that this anniversary on which each of us celebrates our unique existence, has gone from being exciting in childhood, to meh in younger adulthood when we seemed equally blasé about everything else (but weren’t really!), to welcomed back into our embrace with fresh appreciation for those that remain, even as we wryly clock our renewed interest.
As a Monsoon child in Calcutta, the convergence upon our home, of family, friends and fabulous food (including a pistachio and chocolate cricket pitch cake, with tiny cricketers in icing sugar, that I still remember fondly), was invariably accompanied by torrential rain, dangerously flooded streets and interminable power cuts. But the ‘load shedding’ only made the lighting of the cake candles more electrifying, and the guests braving the elements to be there for me more gratifying than I could’ve known then. In the years of mistaken immortality that followed the festivities on my 21st, I couldn’t be bothered to mark my birthdays as I roamed the earth. And it wasn’t till my 40th birthday that I brought my friends from across the decades together to celebrate it with me in India once again.
This year, with no illusions whatsoever of my contributions to my birth day (or any other), I consider it more important than ever to celebrate the small wins along the way. So join me, won’t you, in raising a glass to the lives of resilience we’ve all led, and the gift that is our birthdays?
