The reader here needs to know 2 things :
1. My birthday is in July.
2. The preparation starts in January.
Having established that I am quite the loony when it comes to my birthday. It’s a day of unabashed self-importance, glutenous indulgence and being fussed over by all and sundry. It’s the day I unleash my narcissistic side for all to see.
We had been living in Delhi for 8 months now. The apartment complex where we lived was nothing like the cozy bonhomie one finds at an Air Force station. People were cold, mean and disinterested in the fact that it was my birthday. Yes, I had no close friends. Up until the 12th, all my birthday parties have included a whole lot of lip smacking food, me decked up in a pretty dress, a huge party where the birthday girl wished upon the cake that all the people would now go and let her just open her presents in peace.
So, this year was disappointing. There were no friends, no room full of presents either. Shame.
What was there were my parents, a whole lot of lip smacking food and my cousins and relatives. It was no Page 3 party but it was great. I was decked up in a cool dress, I was happy but I did not like a single gift.
From that birthday on, I pledged to let every single person know from year beginning onward about what I really wanted on my birthday. My parents think it’s awfully stupid but I disagree. I get what I want at least! For instance last year I saved up and bought myself a ridiculously expensive watch. Am I ashamed? Hell no! I love it. I saw it in January and by July I was wearing it.
My birthday is all about proving to myself that I can get anything I set my heart too. Be it fighting for the last Harry Potter book (which incidentally was releasing right next to my birthday) to a phone or anything for that matter.
It’s all about celebrating my crazy determination to go and get what I want.
That’s what my birthday meant to me.
So, thanks to the failure of my 12th birthday, I now make each year a kick-ass celebration of the awesome that is me.