It's my Party and I'll do What I Want to

Romesh Ranganathan is one of my favourite Guardian columnists. The comedian’s midlife crisis series is a whip-smart, wonderfully droll account of the day-to-day reality of being a grown-up. Last year he wrote a piece called, “It’s my birthday, and I’ll be low-key about it if I want to”. In it, he remarked, “I enjoy repeatedly telling people not to make a big deal, so I can spend the day feeling like some sort of smug martyr.” I’ve spent a lot of birthdays over the past ten years or so behaving like this – underselling or concealing the fact that it’s my birthday. I’ve let it pass year after year with little or no fanfare.

But not this year. Tomorrow (or today as you read this) is my birthday and I’ve been unapologetically celebrating since Saturday. So far, there’s been balloons, glitter, a personalised cake, candles and ribbon-wrapped gifts. I’ve had two birthday meals and there’ll be another tomorrow evening as well as a celebratory breakfast.

It’s taken me until this point in midlife to realise that there’s nothing magnanimous or noble about not celebrating my birthday.

In fact, it’s just a bit miserable. And I’ve begun to believe what Oprah says: “The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate.” Birthdays included.

Apparently the “birthday blues” is a common condition, though, and one that can be caused by anything from a fear of ageing to the pressure of organised fun. While thankfully I have no fear of ageing (yet) – I’ve been fortunate that, overall, my life has only improved as I’ve grown older – I’m quite a reserved individual, so any kind of staged celebration makes me feel uncomfortable, and I don’t drink enough alcohol to combat that discomfort. So I’ve never liked the idea of a birthday party – that would be far too much fuss and focus on me; it’s what I imagine being a bride is like. And because the people I value most are friends from a variety of timelines in my life, bringing them all together at one dinner table and hoping they’ll connect has always felt far beyond the social skillset of an introvert like me.

In truth, for many years in my late 30s and early 40s, I didn’t know how to celebrate my birthday. Without a husband or children to make me feel special and help distinguish the day from every other, the onus was on me to build a framework for fun, which I consistently failed to do, and this, in turn, led to a kind of “birthday ambivalence”, which I’ve also realised is tied up with a basic fear of rejection. When I suggested to my sister that I might write this article, I qualified it with my reluctance to let everyone know it’s my birthday. She replied, “Why? Because people might congratulate you and wish you a happy birthday? That would be awful, wouldn’t it?!” Of course, what really would be awful is if they didn’t respond with birthday wishes.

Like ignoring Valentine’s Day in the early stages of a new relationship because it’s safer than being disappointed by your partner, announcing you’ve a birthday on the way leaves you feeling vulnerable and emotionally exposed – it’s like begging for attention – and as grown-ups, we teach and train ourselves to avoid risk, professionally, personally and physically.

But as professor and author Brené Brown said, “Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection and the path to the feeling of worthiness. If it doesn’t feel vulnerable, the sharing is probably not constructive.” Letting my birthday fall through the cracks has always seemed like an easier option than trying to figure out how to mark it because this inevitably involves taking an emotional risk. Nobody wants to wind up like Carrie Bradshaw on her 35th birthday, sitting in a restaurant alone watching someone else blow out their birthday candles surrounded by adoring family and friends. Birthdays involve the possibility of looking foolish and juvenile and of feeling disheartened, of building up expectations that may not be met. It can feel selfish and egotistical too to celebrate yourself.

Ironically, in my professional life, I have never taken the easy or safe option. I’ve always exposed, challenged and pushed myself – for better or worse – but as I navigate the rollercoaster of midlife, I’m realising this has never been the case in my emotional life. In this arena, I don’t like to feel at risk and I don’t relish being exposed. Brown says that, these days, people are so afraid to get hurt that they live in mediocrity. She explains that they choose disappointment over joy simply to avoid feeling pain. If ignoring your own birthday isn’t a prime example of this I don’t know what is.

According to an article in The New York Times earlier this year, during times of stress and anxiety, like a pandemic, adult behaviour becomes more ritualised. Perhaps this is why I’ve had a change of heart about making my birthday matter this year. Perhaps it’s because, in all honesty, I won’t be sorry to say goodbye to 45 – it’s been a brutal year – so why not herald in 46 with a tangible display of hope and enthusiasm? According to Jonathan Rauch, author of The Happiness Curve: Why Life Gets Better After 50, in midlife both men and women suffer a period of inexplicable malaise. “It seems to be an unpleasant but wired-in transition as our expectations, values and brains shift from chasing status and social achievement in our younger years to prioritising interpersonal connections and community in late adulthood.” If comparison is the thief of joy, so too is midlife malaise.

One of his recommendations is to reach out to others and avoid isolation because it only serves to exacerbate negativity and impair judgement. In an interview with Stylist, psychologist Patrick Fagan reinforces this. He describes birthdays as “cathartic”. “People overeat, get drunk, party, dress up, which is a deviation from normal social order. Most importantly, it’s life-affirming. It’s about marking the passage of time and bringing structure to a world which is chaotic and frightening.”

In his birthday-inspired column, Romesh Ranganathan also stated that birthdays are for children. My Dad used to say the same about Christmas, and it always made me angry. While I may have given up on my birthday for a period of time, I never abandoned Christmas (it’s easier to celebrate something outside of yourself) and now I disagree with both men. That kind of reasoning is just an excuse to opt out. When I walked into my kitchen this morning and saw the helium balloons my sister gave me bobbing rhythmically in the middle of the room, I laughed out loud because I’d forgotten they were there. Tonight, I’ll lay my presents out and open them before breakfast just as I would have 40 years ago, and I suspect I’ll get just as much pleasure from it.

Nothing happens unless we make it happen, I’ve learned. So, I’m going to employ the same kind of intention and purpose I apply to every other aspect of my life and channel it into my emotional life by having a bloody brilliant birthday. Cheers to me!

It's my Party and I'll do What I Want to

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