Happy Birthday (to me)

So, my birthday is over. The Big 21. I don't feel any different. Nothing feels any different, apart from the fact that there is a $200 crystal collection from Boy sitting on my desk. A cat, a mouse and a little hedgehog, with a mirror to put them on.

He will be the only thing that has made this day memorable. A day which started out with almost endless text messages (quite sad really, once upon a time these text messages would have been cards I could put on my bookshelf for the day, and later store them away in a Mickey Mouse photo box: the messages will probably be deleted during the next couple of days) and my mother telling me that I should wake up early now that I was 21. Not much later my phone rang and an excited Boy told me he was outside.

I am still amazed by his perfection. The night prior to my birthday I had a thought. I thought about how nice it would be were Boy to come and surprise me on the morning of my birthday. I didn't expect to see him until later that afternoon. Of course, it was only a thought... I knew coming to visit me in the morning would probably not fit into his schedule (he had a lecture from 10-12), so I dismissed it.

At something past 9am, he showed up with precious crystals, happy birthday kissed me and drove me out to the waterfront for lunch, where we had french toast with bacon and maple syrup and fruit, and chicken, cheese and avacado toasted sandwiches with shoestring fries and green salad with lots of dressing (my favourite kind).

It was... nice, for lack of a better word. Warm, and beautiful and comforting, and pleasant.

Then, it was not so nice back at university (birthday or no birthday, the lectures must go on!) and coming home to a mother with a chinese takeout menu, confused as to what to order for dinner.

I remember when birthdays used to be balloons and candles and streamers across the ceiling, pass the parcel and relatives and friends, lots of food and heart shaped cakes with pink icing that you can still taste after 16 years, exciting presents and cards with money, and an uncle with a video camera to capture the special moments.

Over time, birthdays have become text messages and chinese takeaways, supermarket-bought chocolate cakes with no inscriptions, maybe a card or two from the loyal friend who remembers (and is more dedicated to feel satisfied with a simple text message), numerous birthday phonecalls where conversation starts to deteriorate after the words "Happy Birthday" and "Thank you" have been uttered, and an excuse for drinking.

I am no longer waking up on the birthday morning, thinking about how many balloons I am going to blow up, or how many crepe paper chains with different colour combinations I can make before 5pm, and finding a present at the foot of my bed.

I am waking up to another day in the life: beeps of text messages and alarms, and stress because I am late and will miss my lecture... and where did I put those notes?

And so we have it. My Big 21, complete with all the adult prescribed birthday activities: special lunches, and chinese takaways with store bought chocolate cake, and drinking shakers at the bar with forlorn friends.

This is not the end of it, they tell me. They tell me there will be a nice birthday dinner when my dad comes back. Plans are underway for a large gathering of drunk people (or a party, rather) early next month (the August weekends were booked out by friends celebrating their 21st. They were quick to inform me that I could not have mine this weekend, or the next).

But to me, it is the end. The Birthday has gone, and I wonder how many people have really cared.

I don't even really care.

Without the name, it was just another day.

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