Cartharthis (and Pavlovian responses)

WARNING: this is an official rant. It's sad and may make some readers very uncomfortable. For me, I think it's an attempt to exercise my demons at last, I hope.

* * *

My birthday is more or less around this time of year. Too close to Christmas is what I frequently heard.

For many years, and two husbands later, I've held the firm position that I don't want to celebrate my birthday. It really has nothing to do with being hard to shop for (which I am, I guess), or dealing with getting older (a fluke this year [bad math on my part] had me celebrating a year older than I really am. I get a year back woo hoo! But I digress). While walking home the other day I figured it out. I have consistently had a bad birthday, so I think I've come to the realization, why bother to try and celebrate it?

* * *

I was turning seven or eight and the Mothership and my sister planned a party for me where I could invite school friends. I guess I was oblivious to my world around me and invited boys to my party as well as girls. A handful of girls came, as did one boy; the one I had a serious crush on. (The one I learned to like root beer for.) He was mocked. I felt bad. It was not a good scene.

This did nothing for my social ineptness.
* * *

For my 9th birthday my mothership and I had gone shopping for a new winter coat. We found one at Buster Brown's. This wasn't just any winter coat. It was a camel colored dress coat with a rabbit fur collar. The kind of coat you only wore to church on Sundays. The kind of coat that would make you feels like a princess. My mother saw how much I loved the coat, but tactfully told me that the family couldn't afford the price. I knew that. (Perhaps that's why I'm still price conscious.) We walked out of the store with my mother suggesting she'd talk to my father.

Many weeks later, my sister and I were having a joint birthday party. It was a great day for her. I think she was turning 16. I was eight. I was so excited for my sister when she received an enormous, oversized box. With much anticipation, she opened it. I was stunned. My jaw dropped. I think I screamed, and then I ran away in tears. She got the coat. THE COAT. My nine-year old mind processed the whole picture in seconds. She's too big. I had tried on the coat. I would never have fitted her. This was a mistake.

Well, yah. It was a mistake of sorts. Some one in my family wanted to play a joke on me. I didn't take it well.

* * *

My sister and her boyfriend were home to celebrate her birthday. Tradition was that the birthday girl got to pick-out one of the roses on her cake. I got one because my birthday was next.

I'd carefully eaten away all the cake around the rose and excused myself to go to the bathroom so that I could fully appreciate the experience of the sugar rush without interruptions. When I got back to the table, the candied rose was gone.

Some one had convinced my sister's boyfriend to hide it in a napkin on his knee.

I felt betrayed.

* * *

Sweet sixteen. Bah. I was in Washington, D. C. for my 16th birthday. I had to write mid-term exams all that week. My Mom's friend tried to make it an event by taking me to see Cats. I didn't enjoy the outing as much as I could have because I had an English and Math exam the next day.

I remember listening to the radio thinking that maybe one of my siblings would call me to wish me a happy birthday. Nope. Not even a card.

* * *

I learned to stop setting myself up for something for my birthday. My parental units slowly got the message.

During undergraduate studies, the Mothership gave me a cake first thing in the morning and I had birthday cake for breakfast. That was fun. Then I went to school.

* * *

When I moved into my first family home with my first husband, I tried to have a birthday part for myself and the refrigerator died.

Bad luck, or is the Universe sending me a message?

* * *

Birthday's baa.