Birthday parties are a sore subject for me. When you’re young and your parents plan them for you, they’re the best thing in the world second only to Christmas. Gone are the days of inviting your entire class with everyone happily leaving with a party bag and frosting-colored lips. In junior high, the invitations dwindled, but it was high school where my relationship with my birthday became more complicated.
In between periods my sophomore year, I was told about a friend’s surprise party. Her parents planned it a week after her actual birthday knowing it would catch her off guard. Seeing as we had a few mutual friends and it would land on the night of my actual 16th birthday, I had a sneaking suspicion it would serve as a double surprise for us both. A perfect explanation for the lack of well wishes splashed on balloons or bouquets of flowers at school. My friends efforts to throw me off the scent was genius.
The night of the surprise party, I was one of the last guests to arrive at El Mariachi. My entrance coincided with the celebrant’s so we walked in together. After screams and applause, her father requested I move out of the way so he could catch his daughter’s full surprise on video. Little did he know, he’d also capture the moment of pure disappointment on my face. Looking around there were mostly a sea of strangers. Seated at the long table were her soccer teammates and relatives—even an old childhood friend flew out for the occasion. I stewed silently over my cheese quesadilla and refried beans, far too embarrassed to explain why I was so solemn. After our party got final drink refills, her proud parents and best friend clinked glasses to share a toast followed by a public gift-opening. Personally, I never really understood the need to open them at a party when you’re over the age of seven.
Luckily for us guests, only one gift was presented to the lady of the hour. I assumed the small box would reveal a piece of Tiffany’s jewelry or a sentimental family heirloom dating back generations. Inside was something every sixteen year old desired – freedom in the form of a shiny car key. The chorus of “oh’s” and “ah’s’” carried over to outside of the parking lot. Guests surrounded her brand new Toyota 4Runner tied with a bow. It was reminiscent of Valentine’s and Christmas car commercials where the recipient walks out to their driveway in near tears. For different reasons, I held back my own in the back of the crowd half expecting a hidden camera to pop out in front of me. While my peers threw elaborate sweet 16 birthday parties at golf clubs or got surprised with cars in public parking lots, there I was wishing to crawl into a hole like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles.
Assuming that my parents’ planning responsibilities would somehow be taken over by friends, I thought mentioning my birthday to a group of them a few weeks ahead of time would suffice. My social circle at the time was out of convenience carried over from middle school. The two core people I was closest to moved away leaving me lightly tethered to the remaining group. Also keep in mind it was the early 2000’s, a social media-free time that had yet to keep tabs on important dates. I should’ve spoken up more. Or made better friends.
To compensate for a disappointing 16th birthday, I decided to make a bigger deal out of my 18th by throwing a fancy dinner party. I made invitations on Microsoft Word answering the classic details of: What, Where, When in swirly font. Suggested attire: cocktail. Eighteen is a milestone in Filipino culture. Many girls have a cotillion, a “coming of age” party similar to a quinceañera or bat mitzvah. I passed out over a dozen invitations by hand throughout the school day. I was most excited to give one to the crush I exchanged flirty texts with here and there. Since he wasn’t familiar with my friend group, I invited this girl we shared a History class with hoping to make him feel more comfortable.
On the night of my party, my crush texted saying he’s sick and could no longer make it. The table reserved at the Cheesecake Factory for 12 looked awfully big for our party of 4. I was embarrassed for putting myself out there but felt even worse the following Monday. A little birdie told me his sudden illness was really an excuse. He and the girl I invited ditched my dinner to hang out together instead.
The 1963 Leslie Gore hit, It’s My Party (and I’ll Cry if I Want to) was an accurate soundtrack to my formative years. It spoke to the pouty kid who indulged in feeling sorry for herself. I felt comfort from it.
With the scars (mostly) healed over, I can appreciate the irony and laugh about it all now. I retell my once horror stories as if it’s a scene in a comedy flick staring Ben Stiller. His endearing characters you can’t help but pity were relatable. But for years that followed, I let birthdays pass without fanfare. You’re far less likely to be disappointed that way.
With a Spring birthday falling perfectly between a long Memorial Day weekend, I prefer to enjoy things that bring me outdoors and out of my head. No RSVPs to hand out, unworthy crushes to dwell over or existential crises to speak of. Since I’ve reached my 30’s, I no longer put pressure on anyone but myself to make the day special. Call it a reclaiming of my power. Aging is a privilege and I honestly look forward to my birthday, again. Don’t get me wrong I still cry, but not nearly as much as I used to.
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