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This month I turned thirty-four. This happens every year, by the way. You can actually mark the date on your calendar. Birthdays haven’t held any special significance for me for the past several years. I can vaguely remember a time, as a child and even possibly into my early twenties, when I felt a certain nervous excitement and anticipation once March started. Back then, I looked forward to celebrating the day. I looked forward to everyone treating me special and showering me with adoration (and presents). My parents, especially, treated the day as almost sacrosanct. They generally treated me like the reincarnation of Jesus on any normal day, but on my birthday this was intensified to a degree that’s almost obsessive. This is not a criticism, eh, just a statement of fact regarding my exceedingly charmed upbringing. It’s not everyone who can claim that their parents dote(d) on them.

Having been raised Catholic, I was always keenly aware that my birthday is also St. Joseph’s day. The convent schools celebrate this religious feast day. It’s kind of a big deal. When I was a child, it made me feel extra special. Once I started teaching at one of the convents, it also became a day when I’d take my class on a community service day. We’d schlep around to the houses of elderly shut-ins, carrying groceries and singing hymns; or we’d bus ourselves to a financially struggling day nursery, carrying toys and help for the day. They changed the date for community service day at some point and St. Joseph’s day became, instead, a day when the entire school would go on an outing. Either way, something special happened on that day, something bigger than just me. Even this had a certain significance.

I don’t know exactly when it happened, but somewhere along the line, my birthday became just another day. A friend of mine has a theory that celebrating birthdays forces you to evaluate where you are in your life, and this often leads to regret. On the surface, I’m not entirely certain I agree with this, but there’s probably something to the theory. In the past, the very last thing I’d do on my birthday is introspect. In fact, even now I never really do it on my birthday. I do it all the time. I introspect every day of my life. My father seems to think it will be my downfall. All the great tragic heroes had their hubris. I have self-reflection. You’d think that should be a good thing. I mean, the reason most of the tragic heroes ended up dead, maimed and/or marrying one of their parents (gotta love those ancient Greeks) is that they never took time to self-reflect. On the other hand, too much self-examination and rumination leads to (in my case) dissatisfaction and a painful awareness of what is lacking.

Some people, the ones who I imagine know the true meaning of the word ‘zen’ and who think that fluffy bunny rabbits need to be hugged on a regular basis, relish introspection because it allows them to reflect on what is good in their lives. I do that too. Unfortunately, the cynic in me also nudges me and says things like, “yeah ok, you live on the beach and get to hug your godchildren on a daily basis; you have friends and family who treat you like a prince, so what? Why the fuck aren’t you hugging your own children? Your bed is cold and your job makes you want to rip your clothes off and poke pencils into your eyes.”

People say things like, “2010 is my year! I can feel it! Great things will happen this year!” Other people run around on their birthdays grinning and shoveling cake into their faces. In St. Vincent, people dress extra special for work on their birthday. Others don’t even go to work at all, they stay home and do whatever it is people do when they’ve taken a pointless day off. When did this sense of optimism die for me? When did the joy leak out of birthdays, making them into days to be dreaded because other people assume I want smiles, hugs and pseudo-witty jibes at getting older? At some point, I clearly decided that it’s all a crock, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. It’s been over a week since I turned thirty-four and I’ve had cake every day because it’s still sitting in my fridge taunting me. It’s my favourite cake – sticky chocolate – but I’m forcing myself to eat it... alone. I may be fucked.