Another Year, Another Birthday

Tomorrow is my birthday.1

Thank you, thank you.  Yes, just a few hours from now, I will be turning 34; a spring chicken to some, over the hill to others (like my teenage nephew for one).  As I sit here typing away on my old Dell, I can’t help but reflect on how different I feel about my birthday this year, compared to the last 33 - 34 if you count the day I was born, but quite honestly I can’t remember that one.2

My earliest birthday memory is probably the one where I turned five.  I clearly remember how thrilled I was to receive a wind-up musical jewelry box – you know the kind with the ballerina inside that spins around.  I remember sitting there with the box on my chubby lap, winding it over and over again, listening to the semi-hypnotic tune while watching the plastic ballerina pirouette in place.  It didn’t take much to make me happy back then.3

As I got a little older, I remember wanting more and more.  I couldn’t wait until it was my birthday, because I knew it meant cake, ice cream, and presents!  Toys, lotsa toys! I was really into Barbie dolls back then, so anything Barbie was my main focus.  Then, it was clothes and all things Boy George - yes, I admit to having been a big fan of his in the mid-80s, but please don’t hold that against me.4

I remember how I couldn’t wait for another birthday to come around, because somehow I equated getting older to meaning that I could do more things.  I could stay up late, go out on my own with my friends, hit the nightclubs, drink, drive (no, not if I was drinking, I was raised good!).  At that point, the presents weren’t really important, becoming an adult and gaining independence was.  With every candle I blew out, I was on my way to fulfilling my childhood dreams – grow up, get married to the perfect man, have lotsa babies and live in a big house with a pool and a yard and a dog and the white picket fence.  I didn’t realize how I had set myself up for disappointment.5

In my early twenties, I became involved in my first serious relationship (i.e. one that I actually told my parents about).  Four years later, just a week shy of my 26th birthday, we got married.  I remember spending my birthday on my honeymoon, laying on the beach, watching the gentle waves lap the shore while sipping a Bahama Mama to mark my special day.  I can’t say that I remember the next three birthdays though.  I don’t recall our doing anything special to mark any of my birthdays.  Matter of fact, I don’t recall our doing anything special to commemorate any event, not even a wedding anniversary, although I do remember Princess Di getting killed on our first one.6

Then, I turned 30.  I remember going out to dinner with some friends and having a nice time, while my husband was some 200 miles away, living in another state.  I remember not caring that he wasn’t there to share that day with me.  I remember not caring that he never gave me a birthday present – ever.  Well, now that I think about it, he did send me six roses on my 23rd birthday, but they were pretty much wilted by the time I turned 30.  I digress…7

Turning 30 does strange things to a woman.  Take heed, men!  This is a time when women sit back and take stock of their lives.  I was married, but by no means was the marriage perfect (ok I’ll admit, neither was I).  There were no babies, no dog, no big house with the white picket fence.  Things had not exactly gone as I had dreamed, had they?8

A few months later, after much thinking and even professional counseling, I decided it was time for me to start my life over again.  With support from my friends and family and a new-found sense of courage, I walked out on an unfulfilling marriage in the hopes of finding true happiness, as I had always imagined since childhood.9

By the time my 31st and 32nd birthdays came around, I was involved with a “nice guy”.  He even gave me birthday cards and presents.  As a matter of fact, he often gave me little greeting cards “just because” that he’d purchase here and there.  He was always quite thoughtful, just the opposite of what I was previously married to.  I should be happy now, right?  I mean, this was the guy who could give me the house with the white picket fence, thus fulfilling my childhood dreams, right?10

Wrong.11

When did my dreams change?  Where did they go, and what had they become?12

I can’t really pin-point the time or day it happened, but somewhere between 32 and 33, I woke up.  I had spent the majority of my life trying to live up to a childhood fantasy that most little girls grow up with.  The problem was, I wasn’t a child anymore (though I’m guilty of still acting like one at times, but hey who doesn’t once in a while, right?).  I couldn’t very well expect the Barbie dolls that brought me joy as a child to satisfy me as a grown woman.  By the same token, it was time for my dreams to grow up too.13

This time, I didn’t just walk out on a relationship, I walked out on my childhood.  It was time for me to let go of my security blanket, and discover what I really wanted out of life.  So, somewhere between 32 and 33, I asked myself the toughest question of all: What do I really need to start being happy?14

The answer was deceptively simple.  All I needed was me.  No Barbie dolls, no white picket fence.  Just me.  Once I gave myself a chance to get to know the grown-up me, I was able to move forward with my life.  One of the perks of getting to know myself and letting go of my security blanket was finally falling in love with someone who satisfies the grown-up me.  I have a feeling that this one’s gonna stick, too!15

Tomorrow is my birthday.  For the first time in 34 years, I can say that I am truly happy.  My birthday wish is that next year I can still say the same.16

© 200417

Tanya Boutros18