Originally published by The Clifton Courier, October 7, 2020

I went to a friend’s place for dinner the other night.

She casually messaged me the day before saying she was having a few of the girls over for dinner and invited me to join. It was a little last minute and I knew I’d have to leave early because I had an early start the next day, but you don’t say no to dinner invites from this particular friend. 

I mean, she’s obviously great company and all that, but she’s also one heck of a cook. 

So I enthusiastically accepted her invitation and asked her what I could bring along. She didn’t reply. So I turned up empty-handed. But, to be honest, she’d made such a feast it would have been excessive for me to have brought any more food. 

She whipped up a spread of chicken shawarma pie, spiced chickpea salad and this garlicky silverbeet stuff. She also baked a lemon, blueberry and almond cake. She cooks like this all the time, so I didn’t think any of this was out of the ordinary. 

Then, the morning after, I checked Facebook and was given a reminder.

It was her birthday. And I’d had absolutely no idea.

I turned up empty handed, sat through dinner and ate all her delicious food without acknowledging the anniversary of birth in any way whatsoever.

To make matters worse, I had to leave early to get to bed before a 3.55am alarm the next day. It was before dessert was served, so she cut off a slice of cake and packed it in a container for me to take home. 

That cake was technically birthday cake. That she made for herself. That she didn’t have a chance to stick birthday candles in. That she didn’t get to stand next to awkwardly while people sung Happy Birthday to her. 

I just took it and left.

I mean, I was used my manners while doing so, but still.

Like, I was the celebrant (by proxy, technically, I’ve not been bestowed with the legal authority to bind two people in matrimony) at her wedding. I should be on top of that. I like to think of myself as a good friend, but apparently I’m not. Which is confronting.

But, I suppose, wouldn’t mind all that much if someone forgot mine. Birthdays are starting to become non-events these days. 

What’s also confronting is that I’m already at the age where I forget birthdays and birthdays aren’t such a big deal anymore. 

Birthdays were HUGE when I was a kid. 

First off, they’d guarantee you at least a bit of attention that day. You’d get a present. And you were given complete authority to choose what the family would have for dinner. This was an awesome power to wield. You could say whatever you wanted and the rest of the family would have to go along with it. I mean, I’d usually opt for safe, restrained variations of chicken tenders, something with chippies or something smothered in gravy, but the power to make that call and have it be entirely out of left field was truly intoxicating. 

Not only that, but you could have cake.

But, as a mature young woman with my own income, I can have cake anytime I like. In fact, I had that cake I brought home from dinner for lunch before writing this column.

I have an Instagram account, so I don’t need to rely on annual celebrations or scholastic achievements to get my attention fix. I buy myself presents whenever I want – last week I ordered a strobe light on a whim, this week I treated myself to a box of Sultana Bran. And I am faced with the responsibility of choosing my own diner every. Single. Night.

So maybe birthdays have lost their sheen, just a little bit.

The fact is I’ve reached an age when birthdays aren’t all that special anymore. And when birthdays used to be the most special time of all, this sounds a little grim.

But, hey, I get to have chicken tenders for dinner tonight, so it’s not all that bad.