Birthday

On Friday I turned 32. My wife made me a cinnamon bun cheesecake and we had her signature kiribath (milk rice) and loonu thel dala (caramelised onions cooked with spices and tamarind paste) for breakfast. After work, we went to an Italian restaurant near where we live for dinner. A quiet day, which is exactly what I wanted.

I’ve never cared for birthdays. To me they are just another day in the calendar—at worst, yet another occasion for performative social obligations as a host; at best, a reminder I’m getting older (which has never bothered me). I’ve not posted my birthday anywhere publicly on social media (in fact, I thought twice about writing this post), and I don’t care if my friends forget it. I don’t like big celebrations; they make me uncomfortable. Had I been living on my own, I doubt I would have done anything “special.” I had on occasion bought things for myself on birthdays, but come to think of it, I buy things for myself throughout the year, whenever I feel like it (budget-permitting).

Had I been living on my own, last Friday would have been indistinguishable from any other Friday in my life.

I simply just dislike all the cultural baggage that comes with the day you just happened to be born on. Purely incidentally.

Thankfully, my wife understands this. She insists on cooking for me every year (because she is a caring person), and leaves me to my own devices.

I’m trying to put more things on paper, especially about topics I have strong feelings and opinions on, in preparation for my “codex”. It will be a living document about my beliefs and guiding principals. Not taking birthdays seriously may seem like such an insignificant thing, but I have been asked about it enough to warrant a blog post. Now I can just send people a link.