Every Day Is Like A Box Of Dead Flies

My birthday hasn’t been a big deal to me since about 7th grade.  Or, as we say in Canada, grade 7.  I haven’t had a birthday party since then, other than dinner with my family, because that’s the way I like it.  I don’t want a party, I don’t want people coming up to me wishing me a happy birthday, I don’t want a big deal to be made at all.  Just leave the presents on the porch.  I don’t like opening them in front of people because I can never get the right “surprised face”.  I always look like I just opened a box full of dead flies but I’m trying to be nice about it because these flies were hand-picked especially for me and are VERY SPECIAL and also cost a lot of money, so I should be appreciative of the effort and thought.  But it’s a box of dead flies, so that face is hard to camouflage.  But it’s never an ACTUAL box of dead flies; all my gifts are wonderful and I love them and they’re exactly perfect.  That’s just how my face looks.  Like I’m looking into a box of special dead present flies.

I think I’ve lost the plot.

So, my birthday.  It’s not that big a deal.  I’m pretty sure no one at work even knows when it is because no one ever puts up a HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JEN O.! notice on our bulletin board like they do for everyone else.  That sounded sad, but it’s fine with me.  No notices means no one knows.  Or it means no one likes me enough to wish me a happy birthday.  Either way.

On the other hand, I might be secretive about my birthday because I want to see who really cares.  Who has put in the legwork to figure it out for themselves?  I think I might have it on my Facebook page for reasons unknown (probably an accident), but I don’t think anyone pays attention to that anyway.  And, with finding out who cares comes the added bonus of finding out WHO DOESN’T CARE.  If I DON’T tell you when my birthday is AND YOU DON’T WISH ME A HAPPY BIRTHDAY, obviously YOU DON’T CARE, and that gives me licence to huff.  Not huffing = inhalant abuse.  Huffing = not talking to you because you’ve scorned me something terrible and this not talking to you makes you feel even worse about your sins.

How mature is THAT?  That right there is entrapment, which is something that us women do from time to time.  Men scratch their nuts, women trick people into feeling bad about themselves. 

Well, no more of that nonsense.  I’m going back to my roots of not caring and hoping you don’t either.  Wish me a happy birthday, if you want.  I’ll probably react awkwardly and mumble something like “you, too” and blush and walk away while you’re in the middle of a sentence, but that’s just what I do.  Or don’t wish me a happy birthday.  I won’t hold it against you because it’s just a birthday.  They happen every year.  Is every single one that big a deal?  No, no they’re not.  I’ll admit that there’s a handful of milestone birthdays that are important.  The first one, for example.  And it’s cool if you want to throw yourself a giant party every single year you continue to live, that’s just not my style.  I prefer to pretend like it’s exactly the same as every other day.  Because it is.

Tomorrow is my 32nd birthday and it is just another day.

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9 thoughts on “Every Day Is Like A Box Of Dead Flies

  1. Every year my birthday gets more depressing. Not because I am getting older, but because nobody gives a shit. or even remembers. Like you, I don’t want a lot of fuss. Or presents. But a simple email, or even a facebook shoutout. Just something.

  2. I can never remember how old I am, birthdays just make me do the math. That’s when I get my ‘box of flies’ surprise face, when I realize now I’m THAT old.

  3. I feel the same way about my birthday (see post entitled 41 from sept ).

    I think youre a mice person and a hell of a writer. I consider you my friend. I tell my friends Happy Birthday. So, happy bday early.

    Lance, fellow birthday grump

  4. Would you prefer it if I just told you “Wish WE could just scratch our nuts?” Yeah, me too. So instead of the undesired weight of an obliged ‘happy birthday’ that has no meaning since I didn’t know it was time to say it… my wishes are for you to scratch your nuts.

    There I said it. Have fun scratching some nuts!

    p.s. wish I was still 32. I feel old. And I have no nuts to scratch. Well, technically I do, but I have no idea what HE feels when I scratch them. On account that they’re not MY nuts, but his.
    p.s.s. and on THAT salty note I will end this comment!

  5. You may not give a rats ass about your birthday but your writing does. I swear it gets better and better! Great entry! Love the entrapment part! Have a great “just like every other day DAY!!”

  6. Now with the impending doom of my own writing, I don’t know what I’d do everything without the daily chat box thing. Happy birthday, my friend. Thank your mom for pushing 32 years ago.

  7. Pingback: What I’d Buy For Myself If I Were To Buy Myself Something «

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