a birthday party for someone who hates birthday parties.

testing out emotional growth on year 42.

I’m a writer for a reason. I like to organize my thoughts and ideas with lots of space to think between the inception and the execution. This is precisely why I’m not an actress. (Because, you see, not being filthy rich, poreless and famous was an actual choice I made.)

But hey there, I’m no navel-gazer and I’ll prove it: I like my birthday. I like to imagine that I’m emotionally growing into a new chapter even though it usually takes years of retrospection to see the results of said growth. I also like Betty Crocker cakes that suggest I know how to bake (Non, mais,” say my French in-laws every year, “how does she get it so moist?” As I toss a dish towel over the “Super Moist Cake” box that got smashed in my suitcase on the transcontinental flight.) And if I want to shoot for the stars here, I also like to pretend that the day is changing my cat’s life.

However.

Birthday parties?

Nope. Nope. And nope. Not for me.

But why?

1/ The psychiatrist’s analysis reason: I don’t think I’m special enough to have friends, acquaintances and family celebrate the day I was born.

2/ The “let’s keep it light for the internet” reason: It’s on September 2nd and responses usually go something like this:

“Oh, it’s your birthday already,” they’ll say as you can see their entire summer flash before their eyes.

“I guess, summers over.” A look is then shot at me like it’s all my fault.

“Isn’t that the first day of school? Oh wait, no it’s Labor Day.”

And finally: “I’ll be in Montauk.” So, don’t even try to invite me to whatever bullshit you’re planning.

So, no parties for me. Instead, I’ve kept it small with friends I trust and who I know don’t think that I think I’m so great. Oh, the neurosis.

BUT in the spirit, the THEME if you will, of trying new things for 2023 even if they scare me, I decided to go for it: plan a birthday party. For myself. And not try to control the outcome.

(Sort of fucked up since I love trying to control outcomes…but emotional growth!)

But this is where things get fun. This year I wouldn’t have my life line. I wouldn’t have the thing I have used my entire adult life to dissolve discomfort. I was going to do this shit sober. For some background: I haven’t had a sober birthday since 2001, so adult me was, like, I don’t really get it.

But first! To really lean into the horror of it being “all about me” (and also to make me smile), Aurélien made these invitations that he calls Birthdays (Dusk Amethyst Edition.)

And oh, my God.

And in a good way.

Being the nerdkenstein that I am who loves pop culture references, purple and Midnights this made me happy.

We also decided to make it a karaoke party because sober people need activities. And there were even talks about renting a bouncy castle but that felt a little too Bette Davis in ‘Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?’ teetering on a little girl lost vibe. So, we decided to serve quiche instead because same excitement.

Then the responses came in. And one by one, friends and family explained they were literally driving back from vacation. Had other plans they couldn’t break. Or lived too far to drive out on the last weekend before la rentrée. All reasonable responses that my anxiety couldn’t help but take so personally as I stood miles outside of my comfort zone.

I started to think I’d made a mistake. Then the lilacs I bought wilted on the train ride home. My blow-out frizzed like ‘80s Axl Rose. My cat’s life didn’t look like it was changing. And the few days before I was in the emergency room and still have no diagnosis on why it hurts when I eat. But. I was going to have a birthday party, so prop me up, put a fucking birthday hat on me and play Midnights (3am Edition) on loop with my snotty cat because I was emotionally growing here, people.

But that of course didn’t happen. The deluge of declines were followed by confirmations. Some from friends who are now family and newer ones we’re getting to know. The surprise hit song of the night was Natalie Imbruglia’s ‘Torn’ but still couldn’t rival the ultimate ‘90s break up song which is obviously ‘You Oughta Know’ because how fun is it to sing about blow jobs in the theatre (you have to say it like she does or else it doesn’t count.)

It was festive. It was loud. And there was hummus. But I’m going to keep it honest and say that I did feel awkward at times when I reminded myself what the party was for. There were opened bottles of wine and champagne, which haven’t tempted me until this point. Looking at them, they practically winked at me, telling me that the discomfort could all go away with one drink and that feel good flows were within reach.

But H.A.L.T! (said in my best Police Academy 3 voice)

Before doing anything I know is destructive I ask myself if I’m Hungry, Angry (or in this case anxious), Lonely (also bored) or Tired.

And there it was. I was able to resist knowing that I didn’t want so much the drink but to escape from my anxiety. I reached for my Petit Beret 0% Blanc des Blancs (not an ad) and sang ‘Celebrity Skin’ because, oh make me over.

And as the clock struck midnight over our mediaeval village in France, the emotional growth I had been looking for in the past but was either too drunk or too high or too busy texting some asshole came to me like a fairy godmother in a bubble.

Pop! I did it. And I didn’t die from the embarrassment of thinking it was all about me. Because you know what? Sometimes it is. And that should be okay.

So, in the books is my first real (and sober!) birthday party and was it fun? Absolutely. I felt surrounded by wonderful people and food. Would I do it again? Probably not. It’s still not for me. I can’t force a circle into a square peg because like, I said, I’m a writer for a reason.

Happy 42 (Lisa’s Version).