Cinco de Mayo is another American pseudo-holiday. It’s not really celebrated in Mexico; kind of to the same degree that V-J Day isn’t really celebrated. Like St. Patrick’s Day, it’s just another excuse for Americans of every ethnic background to drink a lot of alcohol; and it’s a way for Mexican restaurants to get more business.
Since my birthday falls on that day, it means that most birthdays I had growing up were spent in Mexican restaurants. Specifically, Casa María, which became my dad’s new favorite Mexican restaurant after it was discovered that his previous favorite Mexican restaurant had violated health codes. Anyway, every Cinco de Mayo they strung a piñata for the kids. Then, in order to pick the kid who was going to hit it first, they said, “Whose birthday is closest to el Cinco de Mayo?” And you can kinda guess who was going to get the stick.
In later years, they replaced the stick and the blindfold with a pull-string. I had to jump for it. When it opened, out came the candy; and because I wasn’t in a convenient position to pounce for the candy, I didn’t get much. “Pobrecíto,” they told me, “you can have the piñata.” So I got a piñata. (It wasn’t even one of the good piñatas; it was one of the $5 piñatas you find at the grocery store.)
Birthdays could have been worse, I suppose. At least I love Mexican food. But for the longest time, I didn’t want to see the inside of a Mexican restaurant on Cinco de Mayo. I’m over that now; but I still dislike birthdays.
My family members—heck, bloody near everyone—are completely insensitive to this. They don’t care that I don’t like birthdays. They call me anyway and sing “Happy Birthday” to me. “At least,” it was pointed out, “they call you on your birthday.” Thus they miss the point too.
I dislike birthdays. It has nothing whatever to do with getting older. (I have no problem with that; in fact, it amuses me to no end to tell Dad’s friends how old I am so they can see to what degree he’s been lying about his age.) I don’t hate birthdays, like I used to; and I no longer avoid Mexican restaurants on that day. But my process of getting over a series of sucky childhood birthdays will not be helped by the pure obnoxiousness and semi-sadistic insensitivity of my family members as they ram their enthusiasm down my throat. Trouble is, they don’t get this; and they’re trying too hard to reform me when they should just lay off, dangit, and let me get over it at my own speed.
But it’s not just my family; it’s everyone. Inevitably, people want to reform me. “I can’t understand why you don’t like birthdays,” they say in their defense. “Is there something wrong with you?” That’s it exactly. There’s something wrong with me. I recognize this; I’m working on it; and you’re not helping. It takes pretty much all of my self-control to not tell them to piss off. So instead, I told no one when my birthday is. (Well, no one but Mike and a few others.)
And I will pre-emptively tell anyone who wishes to express fond birthday wishes to me: piss off.