Bird-day Blues



I will be honest here.

I have trouble remembering birthdays. Heck, Sometimes I don't even know what date it is. Sure, I record some birthdays on my handphone. I set the alarm even. However, by the time it rings, I barely have enough time to send a message, much less choose a present. So, if you are among the few who are still waiting for your surprise from me when your birthday passed a month or two ago, all I can say is I'm sorry, I probably spent the money meant for your present on something like 10 Zinger Burger Meals. Next year, try to give a stronger hint.

But of course I'm not so heartless. There aren't people who are still waiting (they have probably given up by now), but the truth of the matter is, I'm guilty of such a charge.

When I was in primary School, I had a love-hate relationship with the date my birthday fell on. For the uninitiated my birthday, which incidentally is my ORD date is on 16th June. I love the fact that the closer I was to my birthday, the closer I was to the holidays, to freedom.

Unfortunately, that meant that I couldn't celebrate it in school by giving my friends colourful wrapped packets of Hersley Kisses, Candy Canes and other tooth decaying creamy, caramel-filled, hazel nut praline-engulfed goodies. In Primary School, the rainbow packets were immunity. Notorious teachers will suddenly praise you to the skies , erasers will magically be teleported to your table should you require one, even the canteen auntie will put extra chilli on your hotdog. Everyone suddenly became your friend.

My birthday falling on a holiday sealed my fate that I was having no such day. It had been pre-ordained that Charlie and the Chocolate Factory should become my favourite book.

So who do I normally celebrate my birthday with during those tumultuous years? My family, of course. They usually celebrate it with my sister, who was born 4 years later but three days earlier, on the 13th of June. Together we would share an entire Mickey Mouse cake, with me exhorting my parents not to cut him up.

Life during Primary School was hard for me in this aspect. I'm sure I needn't retell the story about my primary school sweetheart, June. There is, however one other story which occurred during my lower primary years. Every recess, I would have to be with my reading buddy, either reading or learning spelling. My buddy, turned out to be a girl in the upper primary. I vaguely remember telling my mother about either her birthday or about the buddy system ending but the next moment I knew, she had booked a bouquet of flowers at a nearby florist. So I went to school the next day, with my water bottle ,whose cap you could open with a push, hanging around my neck wrestling with a bouquet of flowers which seemed to be slightly larger than myself. That was the last time I was seen with flowers for a great many years.

You would be mad to think I don't remember any Birthdays. I remember mine don't I? And my sister's. That makes two. I also remember my best friend's, Cedric's birthday. That's way too easy to remember. August the ninth. National Day. Sometimes when I call to wish him , I can't make up my mind to wish him Happy Birthday or Happy National Day first. In fact, I suspect that if I were to dig up the archives of 1985, I'll see his face among the ones that appear on 10 August listed as "National Day Babies".

I can almost imagine his reaction when he realises that the fireworks were not ignited for him afterall.

While remembering birthdays is one thing, getting presents is quite another. These days, girls don't accept any old tattered bear you find in Precious Memories and guys scoff at Giodano shirts. The phrase, "It is the heart that counts" is becoming synonymous with superficiality if not redundancy. With an increasingly brand-conscious younger generation we see a change in taste. Prada, Louis Vutton Bags for girls and Levis or Adidias apparel for guys. Just the other day, my friend hinted while we walking along Tampines Mall, that she wanted a Creative Zen touch MP3 player for her birthday. I nearly choked on my own saliva.


A very touchy issue

Then again, there are others who make it a point to call the fateful birthday boy or girl at precisely 1200 am in the hopes of wishing him first and find immense joy doing so. And so , in a matter of minutes, friends who you rarely hear from in six months are suddenly telling you Army stories and reminiscing the glory days.

For myself, I don't practice a methodical approach to evaluating presents. The fact is, my shelf is loaded with countless bears, snoopy plush toys and last year, a certain relative presented me with a towel. The most important thing I consider: Practicality. I find it weird that I should get presents that I have no use at all. Don't give me , for example a football because I touch it even less than I watch it,which incidentally is never.

I got my most pathetic excuse for a gift last year, in the Army. I was given Guard Duty. Just as the clock struck twelve, my partner woke me up for my prowling shift. I understand now why Harry Potter( when Hagrid still hadn't gotten to him) drew a birthday cake, complete with candles in the dirt and blew them out because at that moment, I wanted to do the same.

So what in the world do I want for my birthday? You probably know it already.

A treat. (preferably Zinger Burger Meal, upsize please)