Allow me to begin by saying that, I'm not writing this to garner
sympathy. In fact, the main reason why I'm writing this at all is
because I unexpectedly stumbled across a spare few hours on a Sunday
night, when I just happened to have a point in min...
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Allow me to begin by saying that, I'm not writing this to garner
sympathy. In fact, the main reason why I'm writing this at all is
because I unexpectedly stumbled across a spare few hours on a Sunday
night, when I just happened to have a point in mind. It's certainly not
the most dramatic or egregious of grievances, but perhaps it'll resonate
with a few of you. So with no further ado: Stuff birthdays. Don't get me
wrong, I like the concept in principle. Having one day out of the year
when you get cake and people pamper you like a god is a nice little
tradition, and it's a good excuse to have friends over and reconnect
after being preoccupied with work the other 364 days of the year. It's a
perfectly pleasant concept in theory. Where things begin to go a bit
awry, is when expectations creep into the process. For some reason that
I've never been able to understand, you're expected to be particularly
happy about being alive on this ONE particular day of the year, like
it's some spectacular achievement that should innately drive you to
tears of happiness. Except it's not really much of an achievement, is
it? Barring some truly poor decision making, it's not all that difficult
to stay alive in the earlier decades of life when your body hasn't
started ageing and falling to bits of its own accord. As a result, I've
never particularly bothered with my birthday (particularly when it
commemorates the beginning of a life that's been marred by depression
for approximately half of its current lifespan), preferring to let it go
unremarked and save my limited capacity for joy for times more deserving
of celebrating. Yet, for one reason or another, people don't appear to
be able to just let it go. They'll throw surprises, turning up
unannounced proffering cakes, cards and candles expecting a WIDE grin
and a tearful hug thanking them for the gifts and their thoughtfulness.
Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful. I'm gratified that my friends and my
family care enough to spend their hard-earned cash, and even more
valuable time celebrating the birth of a soul as prickly and
curmudgeonly as myself. Were it possible for me to actually feel much of
anything, I'd probably be touched. But what these silly buggers don't
seem to realize, with your bright, expectant smiles, is that the closest
thing I've felt to proper happiness in the past decade is the relief I
felt relieving an overburdened bladder following 3 hours of Sunday Mass
after having 2 litres of water beforehand.
How do I talk to my doctor?
