Birthday Math
Right on the heels of the winter holidays comes another important date. When people discover my birthday is on December 28th, they invariably say something along the lines of, “That must suck.” Being Jewish, it doesn’t suck that much; but you know what does suck? Getting socks for Hanukkah. One thing is for certain: Being born three days after Jesus’ birthday and three days before the new year makes the event kind of anti-climactic.
The pluses and minuses of a December birthday are many, and they change as you age. Child-me never had to go to school on her big day, which was great. However, since many of my friends were away on family vacations during my birthday, I sometimes had smaller parties than the other kids. These parties often worked to my advantage though, when taking into consideration the generous cake-to-kid ratio.
On my 14th birthday, we were enjoying a lively game of “Light-as-a-feather-stiff-as-a-board,” when there was a knock at the front door. I should have known something was up when I noticed my mom grab her Instamatic and wait by the staircase. I opened the door to find a hapless superhero standing on the front porch. He had a bad perm and wore creepy red tights and a metallic gold cape; I guess he was the only sober singing telegram left in town that week. I was made to sit on his knee while he serenaded me, leaving my mother to ponder why she had invited a possible pedophile into our home.
But I’m Not Bitter
Perhaps the greatest disappointment for the holiday baby is the dreaded “combination gift,” which is one that is supposed to suffice for both global religious holiday and birthday—usually a last-minute find in Christmas packaging. It’s not that I don’t appreciate laziness as a concept. After all, I work in pajamas all day. It just seems a little unfair.
There are very clear rules about the often misunderstood combination gift, and I’ve trained Bill on them thoroughly. First of all—and most obviously—a combination gift must be at least twice as good (and usually twice as expensive) as a typical birthday gift. This is best illustrated using straight-forward conditional statements: If Hanukkah = bathrobe, and birthday = pedicure, then Birthdukkah = a trip to Canyon Ranch. Similarly, if Christmas = earrings, and birthday = a night at the movies, then Birthmas = a trip to New York for a Broadway show with a stopover at Tiffany’s. It’s pretty simple math.
A relative of the combination gift is called the “same-day combination gift.” Bill is good at this method. As its name suggests, this is a gift purchased on the very same day as the recipient’s birthday. Same day gifts are different from regular ones in that absolutely no thought goes into purchasing them.
And then there’s the rock-bottom of gifts: hug coupons. Only children under four years of age should be eligible to give this gift—not husbands. I shouldn’t complain though. Bill usually gives excellent gifts: jewelry, spa treatments, vacations. I once gave him an air compressor, which in my opinion was only slightly better than a hug coupon, but he loved it.
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Most of the time, Bill doesn’t make a big deal of birthdays, which leaves me with a dilemma: mope around the house until he takes me to an expensive restaurant, or my favorite: plan my own birthday. This is how our tradition of celebrating all special Haddad occasions with sushi and doughnuts came to be. Spending the last hours of a birthday or anniversary with sake and glazed doughnuts is like a glimpse into our relationship. Bill is strong and dry; I’m squishy and sweet. Both of us are best in moderation.
One of the things I love about my birthday is that Bill will do pretty much anything I ask, so we spend the day doing all the things I can’t get him to do the rest of the year. Past examples include signing up for TSA pre-check, putting up a shelf that’s been sitting in my office for over eight months, and pulling clumps of hair out of the shower drain.
Bill’s even less fond of celebrating his own birthday. He can only manage to suck it up once a year to observe mine. He specifically loathes surprise parties. I learned this the hard way when I gave him one at our home years ago. You would’ve thought I’d slaughtered a horse in the middle of our living room by the expression on his face when he walked through the front door. There was food and drink and even special headgear with glittery antennae to make things festive, but I could tell Bill was uneasy with all the attention. At least he was able to feign happiness.
It took a couple years for me to realize how much easier my life would be if I ignored Bill’s birthday altogether. When I ask what he wants for his big day, all I get is, “I need new underwear.” Bill would’ve made an excellent Jew. Bottom line, all he really wants is cake and sex, which at least spares me a trip to the mall.
The only time Bill has actively participated in his own birthday plans was the year he turned 50. At first he was resistant, until I pointed out that he could either go to a dozen or so birthday dinners hosted by friends and family or get it all over with at once. Ultimately, what sold him was our decision to have the party on a boat. That way, we could avoid the uncomfortable “It’s time for you to leave” conversation at the end of the cruise. Goodbyes are short when conducted on a pier. Plus, he got to wear a captain’s hat.
One of my favorite birthdays was my 35th. For someone who spent the previous 12 months saying she wanted a surprise party, I fell for Bill’s ploy rather easily. I thought we were going to pick up a small cake for dinner with another couple, but we took a turn into a restaurant instead, where all my friends were waiting for me. I wished I had been wearing a cuter outfit, but aside from that and a small napkin fire, everything was perfect. Bill gave me a beautiful diamond bracelet after dinner. But the highlight of the evening was his rendition of “You Are So Beautiful,” sung a cappella. Bill is by no means a singer. Some might even say he’s got a voice for silent film. But what he lacks in tone, he makes up for with passion. I don’t think anyone there, including the waitstaff, had ever heard anything more sincere, loving, or painful.
Fifty’s Pretty Nifty
For my 50th birthday, Bill threw me a party to end all parties. It was as close as we would ever come to a big, traditional wedding and reaffirmed our decision to marry across the ocean. We suddenly found ourselves dealing with venues, caterers, tables, and appetizers.
The party was held at the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center—a botanic garden and arboretum on the outskirts of Austin. Since it was slightly after Christmas, the venue still had glowing luminaria lining the walkways leading up to the room where our party was held. My sister-in-law and her daughter created beautiful centerpieces from candle lanterns and fresh flowers. The lights were low, and large candlelit tables were scattered about the room. There were no unintended fires. Music from the 1980s filled the air, and a slideshow of photos from my half-century on Earth played in a corner. It was perfect.
Unfortunately, I was not so perfect. I asked my niece for some advice on my hair, but I don’t speak hair, so my locks came out looking like I’d dunked my head in a vat of butter. All the gooey product on my scalp made it appear that I was wearing a greasy helmet. Fortunately, my navy velvet dress stole the show—at least that’s what I thought until I got home and realized there was crab cake smeared all over the hem.
When I stood up to give a speech thanking our guests, my breath stopped for a moment. All those people were there to celebrate me. I didn’t realize how lucky I was to have so much family and so many friends from all parts of my life there. I was overwhelmed and a bit woozy by all the attention (and wine). I was also a little embarrassed by how elaborate the party was. There were savory hors d’oeuvres, elegant decorations, and a sumptuous dinner of fish and steak. Everyone, including myself—and even Bill—had a wonderful evening.
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Regular celebrations, such as birthdays, mark time. They take note of things like the accrual of love or experience. Every year we get another chance to say the same things in different ways: “I love you; you are important to me; what’s the next big milestone?” We come around again and again to these same dates and wonder what their significance is. Perhaps we’re grateful for having survived another year. And whether or not we’re ready for a new one, we celebrate it anyway.
I wouldn’t change my holiday birthday for a million bucks. (That’s not true—for a million bucks I’d change my name.) It’s a special time of year anyway, and everyone is ready to celebrate something, so why shouldn’t that something be me? As long as the day ends with sushi and doughnuts, the coming year will be fine.
