The Inevitable Existential Crisis of Birthdays
My first memory is from my third birthday party. We invited all the neighborhood kids over, and while the parents talked in the kitchen we played in the living room for hours until orange light seeped in through the windows. My mom made me a Barbie birthday cake — one of my favorite Barbies stuck in the middle of a gown-shaped cake, bubblegum pink.
The rule for both myself and my siblings was a birthday party every other year. They were never whole-class parties like our classmates’ we were invited to, but they almost always had a theme. One year it was Wizard of Oz and we dressed up as our favorite characters and played broomstick tag in the garage. Another, my mom helped me adapt a short story I had written into a play that was then cast, rehearsed, and performed by my friends and I in the span of one afternoon.
As we grew older, we grew less fond of parties. The celebrations shifted into hangouts with friends, a sleepover, and the dinner cuisine of our choice. We were too cool for Barbie-shaped cakes. Along with this newfound nonchalance came the ever-increasing feeling of growing up. And with that, growing older. It became less, “Yay! I’m 14!” and more, “Oh, I’m 14.” The excitement was all too often masking the internal fear that, with another year, comes another list of worries, stressors, and responsibilities.
I’ve noticed in the past few years especially that the foreboding surrounding birthdays has amplified tenfold. With each year comes a soft congratulatory voice saying, “I’m proud of you for making it this far”, accompanied by a much louder voice reminding me, “You’re graduating this year. You have to figure things out. You have to find a real job, a real apartment, a solid plan…” The list goes on.
I turned 21 this week. My grandma referred to it as my official entrance into adulthood. I’m not sure if the right to purchase alcohol is the quintessential marker of adulthood, but it sure adds another level to it. Unsurprisingly, I had my annual mental check-in of who I was a year ago (or the year before that) versus who I am today. It’s oddly comforting to compare and reflect on all the things I’ve endured this year, many of which were unexpected. But at the same time, I had to talk myself out of diving down the rabbit hole of existential terror, as follows.
Did you really use your time wisely? Why didn’t you do ___? Why would you ___? Are you really that different? Is it that much of an accomplishment, anyway? Do you even have a plan for this year? Why aren’t you more prepared?
The questions alter with the year (and the person, naturally), but I think the whole concept of birthdays is intertwined with existential crises the moment you’re old enough to have them. Sure, as a kid, you’re more worried about the terrors of sixth grade rather than the unfamiliar navigation of searching for your first full-time job. But by distinguishing one day a year to mark another year of your life, you’re inherently led to compare your past-self to your present-self and contemplate the uncharted challenges of the year ahead.
Maybe after a while, they’ll all begin to blend together. Maybe in ten years, when each passing year is no longer defined by a clear-cut authorization of certain rights, I’ll have established a sense of stability and purpose. Maybe by then, I’ll have grown used to the passage of time and no longer feel compelled to have thoroughly accomplished something new every time October 12th comes around.
But then again, maybe not. Maybe birthdays are bound to be a tangled mess of joy and apprehension, a day that either elicits celebration for another year of life complete or celebration for the sake of avoidance. A day that means so much, yet so little at the same time. After all, what’s one day in the span of a lifetime?
