It was a big birthday for my niece this week; or maybe I should say it was a ‘significant’ birthday.
Is that more politically correct? Does it even apply when it comes to birthdays? Who can keep up …
Anyhoo, we all went around to her place to celebrate it with her, handing over a heftier haul of gifts than usual because this number needed to be recognised.
Depending on where you’re from or your religion, the importance of certain birthdays changes. For Jewish children, their bat mitzvah (girls) and bar mitzvah (boys) is significant milestone. For girls, it can be at the age of 12 or 13 and for boys, it is 13. It is a rite of passage that essentially states they are responsible for their own actions from then on.
In Mexico, girls have their quinciñearas when they turn 15. (‘Quinciñeara’ literally means ‘15-year-old’ in Spanish, but if you gave up on Duolingo as I did a while back, I thought I’d let you know.) A coming-of-age celebration, it usually starts with a mass, followed by a party, complete with dances and toasts. From when I was young, I coveted the quinciñeara dresses I saw in pictures. Voluminous skirts in beautiful colours with corset-style tops … absolutely stunning gowns. You just have to Google to see what I’m talking about.
Hey, I’d still love one, but I’d look like the Miss Havisham of quinciñearas, complete with a faded piñata hanging in the background.
I did a bit of a dive into the internet to try and learn more about birthdays around the world. Supposedly 20 is a big one in Japan; it’s when you’ve officially reached adulthood. In Spain, ear-pulling is a thing. The birthday person gets a ‘gentle’ tug on the earlobe for each year of their age. The story didn’t specify if just one guest does this, or if everyone lines up for a big tugfest. One would hope it would be the former, otherwise they’d be sporting pretty sore lobes by the end of the japes.
I have a German friend, so I need to check this with them, but apparently superstitions dictate that it is very bad luck in that country to wish someone ‘Happy Birthday’ in advance. On the day itself, the goodwill comes pouring in, but anyone bringing out the candles and cake before midnight the day before is basically asking for it.
And here’s one I’ve never heard, so please, someone confirm: It says that in Jamaica, it is customary to ambush the birthday person by throwing handfuls of flour on them.
Although I was born in England, where the most recognised birthday is turning 21 – sort of a complete licence to cause havoc; you can drink, gamble, rent a hotel room … – I grew up in Cayman, with access to American programmes. I and my friends therefore became familiar with the Sweet 16 phenomenon. What with TV shows and ads about it, and reading all the ‘Sweet Valley High’ books we could get our hands on, we got totally on board with the idea of having that kind of party. My memory is fuzzy, but I don’t think my parents jumped on that particular bandwagon. Understandable, as they had four children – including two girls – so the more extraordinary celebrations required, the more they were setting themselves up for becoming their kids’ glorified event planners.
Birthdays mean different things to different people. When I was younger, I couldn’t wait to be older. Turning 17 meant getting a learner’s driver’s license, a major goal. Dad gave me one lesson, I drove the car into the garage … literally. Hit its side wall as we went up the driveway. The next day, my parents got me a driving tutor.
I’ve always loved my birthday, no matter what age. There are some people who really don’t want to talk about it as soon as 40 is looming. And as each new decade approaches, the percentage of those less inclined to discuss their special day increases. Growing up in the Caribbean, I’ve learned that many islanders consider their birthdays to be pretty important. Once in a while, when I’ve tried to book a band or a performer for a certain date, I’ll get a message back saying they aren’t available for only that reason. Some of these people are in their 50s. And it isn’t that they are having a party or anything; they just take that day off.
The nature of how we observe our day changes as we get older. When I was a kid, a party with cake and decorations, friends bringing presents, games like pass-the-parcel and each one of them taking home a bag of party favours was the thing.
Actually, maybe mine hasn’t changed so much after all; but I digress …
When I was in my late teens/early 20s, we’d either do a sleepover at a friend’s house, or a whole bunch of us would contribute to the cost of one Islander Hotel room (now-empty property next to Peppers) to have as a base. We’d go to the bars and clubs on West Bay Road, then get back to the room to sleep at some point in the wee hours. I don’t know how it worked out this way, but it always seemed that those of us who had actually put up the money had the least comfortable arrangements. I recall one Friday being curled up on the dubious carpet, my shoulders and back covered by a damp towel to try and keep the blasting cold air-conditioning at bay, attempting to get some shut-eye. That’s what I call birthday funsies.
I’m not even sure when it happened, but slowly the parties transitioned to mature dinners with a small group of friends. At least, that’s the case for me. I take my hat off to those around my age who can still don the Louboutins and head to South Beach for the weekend, dancing until dawn. Ha! I’d be spending the next day in the hospital. Come back, Islander Hotel room, split between 20; all is forgiven.
The more years that pass behind us, the more pros and cons that arise. Cons: No more entering most beauty pageants; cholesterol becomes a thing; we’re older than most artists on the Billboard charts. Pros: Senior discounts; young whippersnappers giving up seats for us on public transport; accumulated wisdom … or so I’ve been told.
I don’t have another ‘big’ birthday for a few years yet. And the great thing is that my best friend Lynne and I were born in the same month, exactly 10 years apart. So, we always throw an event together. Perhaps we should start planning from now. Make it a real celebration before another con kicks in: An increase in health insurance premiums.
Cue the piñata.
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