According to my memory, which incidentally is pretty much going to the dogs, I’ve always been the kind of person who starts getting excited about their birthday at least 4-5 months before it actually arrives. For my first eighteen birthdays that I celebrated at home, I would usually subject my mother and anyone else foolishly patient enough to put up with this sort of idiocy to a freak monster countdown... “Only fifty three days to go! Are you excited? ARE YOU?!”
And today, here I am. It’s less than twenty four hours away from what I used to herald with as much fervour as the second coming of Christ... and I’m about as thrilled as Marvin the Paranoid Android, and roughly as much fun to talk to. The idea that I am perhaps too old and bored to manufacture the required amount of adrenaline for my birthday this time keeps dancing dangerously in front of my eyes.
That can’t be it though. I don’t feel that old. I still have my innumerable plans of world domination and debauchery like any other self-respecting Young Adult. Also, I’m only turning the big Two One, and will finally be able to do all those things legally that I’ve been doing since forever anyway.
Leaving my teens was happy and exciting and it meant that people would finally take me seriously. However, I didn’t like being twenty despite all the fun and learning and all the people. A week before my 19th birthday, I saw a brilliant exhibition on Samuel Beckett who I was completely unfamiliar with uptil then. It fascinated me so much that I googled and Wiki’ed him, and finally, read his only work that I could find easily in its original version at that place. Being twenty was exactly like reading ‘Waiting for Godot’ again - full of non sequiturs, uneasy silence and existentialist angst. So, I guess I should be delighted about my 21st... but I’m not.
Oh, and my two BFFs (I shall be guillotined for this term, I am sure), probably the two people who I want to be with the most on my happy day, won’t be there. Peter Pan is going on a much-needed vacation with his family who don’t generally see him that often. EmmVee... ah well, she hasn’t visited India in about half a century now.
Despite that worth-weeping-into-my-hanky grief, I suppose it’s not that bad. I mean, after all, it’s my birthday, damnit! It comes only once in 365 long days! And I do have a party plan with another June-born friend.
What is this mysterious miasma then that is smothering my usual birthday cheer?
Tuning in to the same batty channel at the same batty time will be useless. I may never be able to figure out what’s going on and find a cathartic resolution-of-conflict type explanation.
I think I’ll just go and grab my jar of peanut butter, and find my colouring book and my set of Crayola.