Why I Never Have Birthday Parties

To tell you the truth, I've always found birthdays a bit of a downer. As the day draws closer, I can practically feel my blood pressure rise. I suffer from break-outs. Simple conversations with friends often leave me paranoid, as if they are laughing at me behind their half smiles and only I can see it.

A part of me suspects I’m not the only one who feels this way.

This time round, I'd talked to my friend Tom about it. He’d asked me what I was doing, maybe because he thought I was having a party and hadn’t invited him. Either way, there was something in his tone that made me even more prickly than usual.

“Nothing,” I’d snapped. “Nothing at all, same as every year.”

“Are you for real?”

Tom had been pretty hurt by this. He’d tried to hide it, but his left eye twitches a little when he’s upset. Nobody’s ever told him and the poor guy is constantly puzzled by how easily people can read him.

“Geeze, Tom, you know how I feel about birthdays. Seriously, I’m not doing anything.”

“That’s not right,” he’d said, and his left eye had been jumping out of its socket. “That’s not right at all, man. I’m going to throw you a party. Yeah! I’m going to throw you the biggest, most awesome party you’ve ever had! But it’ll be like a, a. . .an anti-birthday party!”

“Seriously Tom, I don’t want a party.” But I guess I couldn’t help sounding a little pleased. That was all the encouragement Tom needed to start sending out invites and blowing up balloons and when he’d called me later that evening he was practically exploding with excitement.

“Okay dude, it’s all set for tomorrow night. Hope you’ve got your party pants ready because it’s going to be a good one!”

Well, Tom wasn’t kidding. As soon as six o’clock had rolled by, the doorbell started ringing and never really stopped. There were old school mates and new colleagues: ex-girlfriends and potential flings. There were adults with young kids in tow and people I’d only met in passing. People could barely edge their way into the kitchen because there was so much food. My bed had been buried under the dozens of ‘anti-birthday presents’, odd bulging things wrapped in newspaper and faded flyers.

Almost all of the guests had forced an anti-birthday present on me, often with a laugh and a slap on the back. Early on in the evening I’d taken a peek at one. It was an old blender. Ancient, indistinguishable food filled its cracks and crevices, layered and coloured like so many levels of strata and straight away, I had known these anti-birthday presents were a not-so-little dig at me from Tom. Well, fair enough. He’d made his point and I’d really wanted to say thank you, but there wasn’t any sign of him.

The party had progressed and by eight o’clock - when people started spilling out the back door and into the garden - I'd begun to get a little worried because there was still no Tom. It was unusual for him to be late for anything, let alone a party.

Especially a party he’d organized.

Just when I was envisioning the worst – the twisted metal of a car crash, the rat-a-tat tat of crossfire, the heat from a sudden flash-fire – the doorbell had rung.

This time, I 'd thought, it’s got to be Tom.

Everyone else I knew – and even some people I didn’t know – was already at the party.

I opened the door and was greeted by the most peculiar sight. Behind me, conversations petered out as one by one, people turned to stare. Someone in the kitchen dropped a plate. Even my mouth dropped open, and I have a reputation as someone whose feathers are particularly difficult to ruffle.

On the verge stood eight giant squirrels. The light from the party behind me reflected off the beautifully wrapped presents they were clutching. They were all looking at me expectantly, all eight of them, and for a split second I thought I’d gone quite mad.

“What the. . . “ I heard myself say, and then shook my head. “Tom? Is that you?”

At the sound of Toms name, the squirrels all nodded in unison. Behind me, somebody laughed and the tension was broken. I 'd ushered Tom and his friends inside, marveling at how good the costumes were.

“Which one of you is Tom?” I'd asked as I led them to my bedroom. They all shrugged and looked at one another until - finally - one of them stepped forward. There was an air of hesitancy about that step that made my blood run cold. I’d never known Tom to do anything hesitantly. Not once, not in fifteen odd years.

“Tom? Is that really you?”

The big head nodded, this time with such vigor that I couldn’t help laughing. “Those costumes are amazing, man. Amazing! Where did you get them? I can’t even see the-“

Someone had come into the room behind the squirrels.

It was Tom.

My voice died as the colour drained from my friends face.

“Oh god, not them. Not here!” he’d said and at the sound of his voice the squirrels had pirouetted to face him with an almost menacing grace. And even as the they'd started moving towards him, I couldn’t help myself.

“You see?” I had said. “This kind of thing is why I never have birthday parties.”



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