Birthdays Are For Kids

You know the only sorts of get-togethers that stink worse than birthday parties for adults are baby showers. Check that. Co-ed baby showers are worse. You know when being a girl stinks? It stinks when you’re socially obligated to go to a party where women sit around cooing over baby clothes. Good grief. What a total waste of time. It might actually be a good thing that you’re procreating. It might actually be fun to buy you and the kid a present. It is pretty much guaranteed that it won’t be interesting to watch you sit there opening presents and pretending to be excited about the ugly little frock your mother-in-law bought you. It just won’t. And usually these little shindigs are during football. So, in addition to enduring pastels and nasty cake frosting, attending a baby shower means missing grown men in tight pants smashing the heck out of each other. Not a good trade.

But I digress. This is about adult birthday parties. The author of “Happy Birthday You Bastard”, John Swansburg, has decided to reject all birthday dinners. He makes a compelling case, but it falls apart at his conclusion:

In a way, though, it is I who owe Simon. The piles of jumbo shrimp floating on seas of melted ice; the untouched beds of creamed spinach; the endless rounds of marked-up Beck’s Dark—they flash before me now whenever a birthday dinner invitation comes my way, and I can’t bring myself to RSVP yes. The excesses of Simon’s dinner were what I needed to find the social gumption to swear off such affairs entirely. Throwing a party for your birthday? I’ll gladly attend the festivities. Point me to the bowling shoes and buy me a few frames. Cook me dinner—I’ll bring the Taboo. Otherwise, see you next year, pal.

No. Just no. If you’ve crested 18 years old and aren’t hitting one of the milestones, birthday parties are STUPID. You’re a grown woman or man. Hopefully, you have kids to lavish parties on and if you don’t, lavish attention on nieces and nephews and if you don’t do that, take up some sort of charity work. (And don’t you dare write me and tell me about celebrating your dog’s birthday, because that will provoke a beatin’.)

America is the land of the perpetual child. Yay! I’m 33. Whoopdefriggindo. So what? Now, if family wants to celebrate, fine. If you want to go out to eat with your significant other, fine. If you want to meet with a couple girlfriends or have a guy’s night out, fine. But please, grow up. A person who has hit his late twenties and is going to the bar to have an excuse to get wasted is LAME. And it just gets worse the older one gets.

And a birthday dinner where the birthday boy, Simon, invites disparate friends and then expects these strangers to foot the bill? Super mega double lame. And no, Simon shouldn’t have a birthday party either. And no, his buddy shouldn’t be bringing Taboo over either. It’s weird. And sorry, John, but you shouldn’t be expecting your birthday friend to make you dinner or pay for your frames of bowling.

In this world where no one has kids until they’re 40, it seems that adults are the children. It’s too bad, really. Because for parents, true joy comes from watching the kids faces light up. Their delight and happiness and excitement makes for more contentment than an adult celebrating a birthday.

No birthday parties unless you’ve hit a big date. No birthday dinners where you’re mooching manipulatively. Silly people, birthdays are for kids.

Posted in Corrupted Culture
Tags: America • Culture • Psychology