The Significance of Milestone Birthdays

Diary entry - July 2021

(Before my 30th Birthday)

The big 3 0.

So big, in fact, that it commands its own sound. The pronunciation differs from the English vernacular, as we’ve come to know it. We say ‘three-oh’, emphasising the phonetics as if the enormity transcends the norm of what is usually intended. 30s was so much bigger in my mind’s eye. It looked much like Sex and the City’s Carrie Bradshaw in her Aidan phase, in the height of her career, navigating work and relationship with the ‘one’, having finally found requited love. It sounded like the clink of glasses in elaborate dinner parties with mismatched crockery I had acquired on my travels and the self-assurance one can only hope to find with age. To me, thirties was the golden era.

As I’m nearing my 30th, I think about all the birthdays that have come before. The past 29 have seen copious rounds of musical chairs, neatly sliced wedges of cake on scalloped paper plates, and plentiful tears to boot. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t consider myself a birthday fiend, however, there’s something about the upcoming landmark that feels pivotal, painful, and sanguine, in equal measure.

I’ll forever hold onto little trinkets, to savor life transitions. From the thick stack of birthday cards in my possession to the dainty necklace I received for my 21st. Does this sentimental behaviour lend itself to someone with an affinity for birthdays?

Then they’re the milestones. Are they momentous because we’ve been conditioned to attribute them to a feeling, stage, or state of being? When people oppose the notion of birthdays, is it because they reject the process of aging, anticipate disappointment, tire of materialism, or are simply indifferent? Either way, it seems you can’t escape the occasion. Even if you dislike birthdays, conviviality sneaks up on you, coercing you into the appeal.

I have a strange relationship with my date of birth. It induces a state of overwhelm within me. The anticipation is often coupled with the bitter end of self-reflection when the sun goes down. It’s then, I feel a profound loss for the thing I love most about the day, the sweetness of being bestowed upon with love. Knowing I have to wait another 365 days for the same level of adoration is a painful realisation. Nevertheless, it’s interesting to think about how we would age, despite the perceived milestones. Would there be less regard for the numbers we embark upon or are emotional attachments to age inevitable? Have you thought about your relationship with age, aging, and birthdays lately?