I can't point to the year it happened. Maybe it was the sleepover birthday when I was 10 that didn't go as well as I expected that turned me sour on celebrating the day of my birth. It could have been much later, college, because so much more goes on then. Just celebrating making it to the next day is enough. Forget the birthday! (We can discuss that all important 21st birthday another time.)
Despite the fact that I danced on stage, played basketball, and gave lavish science presentations to auditoriums full of children, I do not like attention given to me. I especially don't like attention for just being born. C'mon, we all did that.
So, yeah, today is the day that my mother gave birth to me. It's the day that my father flew his plane in loops in celebration of me. It's three days before my sister held me for the first time 38 years ago.
Like so many years since I turned 29, I am not excited about this day. It is like all the others. I have not accomplished all that I wanted. I have nothing special to do. I don't want anything. I don't need anything except to reach those goals I have set. I am quickly reaching the time when I hate my birthday. It isn't the age. It's all the people no longer here. It's all the things I failed to do. It's a hurdle I must cross, not my day of celebration.
Forget your words of cheer. Use them on someone who desires the attention. I have work to do. There are too many goals yet unreached.