Birthdays have never been a big deal to me.

Maybe they were when I was a kid. I don’t remember. I guess I looked forward to presents and cake.

Now, I don’t want presents, and I don’t eat cake. (I got rid of nearly everything I owned. I have no desire to collect anything, and I gave up sugar almost a year ago, and I’m never going back to it.)

But my aversion to birthdays goes back further than this or even the past couple of years.

Aversion. There’s a word I didn’t expect to come out. What is my psyche telling me? Let’s find out.

Recalling birthdays past

My birthday is six days before Christmas, so while I know I had parties, I think they tended to blend with the bigger holidays. Maybe if I’d had a summer birthday, it would have stood out more.

I don’t have a favorite birthday. Some people do. Maybe a milestone or a surprise party. Maybe a special trip or an unexpected gift. I don’t really remember.

I do remember the year my mom made pistachio-flavored, green-colored, Christmas-tree-shaped cakes for my birthday, and I got sick on it. Surprisingly, I still like pistachio.

I remember my “pretend” birthday when I was 19. My boyfriend (later my husband) thought my birthday was in October, so he made a nice dinner and had presents. I was wondering what was going on, because he was two months early. We joked about it for years.

I don’t think I went out for my 21^st birthday. Maybe friends would recall. I wasn’t much into drinking then, anyway.

Nothing special for my birthday

Perhaps it’s because I’ve never had a spectacular birthday. Usually, it was just a school day or a work day. Maybe dinner out, but more lately, just a get together with the “grandmas” at the house. I’d make my own cake (and that’s not a complaint because it’s my favorite cake, and I really only like it the way I make it), and that’d be it.

It got to where I didn’t even want that. I didn’t want anyone to come over. No presents. No cake. No nothing.

Last year, I didn’t make the cake. I gave up sugar around Thanksgiving, and I knew if it was in the house, I’d be tempted to eat it. So I didn’t. I could turn down pretty much any other kind of cake or dessert, but Waldorf Astoria red velvet with the cooked frosting that you keep in the fridge so it’s cold when you eat it … My willpower isn’t that good.

It’s not a family thing

Other people in my family love birthdays. My sister thinks they are like holidays on par with Christmas and should be celebrated as such. If she had her way, everyone would have a vacation day on their birthday and money to spend on a big event, activity or something fabulous. You’d go out to eat with friends or family to some restaurant you’d been drooling over, get presents and cards in the mail, have time to do something you really wanted to do (like an oil painting) and go to bed with a big grin on your face.

My mom always looks forward to her birthday. If she didn’t get a card — at least — she’d be hurt. I could skip the gift, and she’d be OK, but she loves cards. LOVES them. And she loves all of the good wishes from her many friends and family members. She likes to connect with people that way. It’s important to her.

Happy birthday to me?

It’s not an age thing, for me, either. I’ve been blessed with good genes, so it’s kind of fun to let people know my real age, because they are surprised. It’s just a number, and I certainly don’t feel my age. I’ve never felt the need to lie about being older or younger. Joke about it, sure. Dye my hair? You bet. But I’m hitting a mid-life milestone this year, and that’s OK.

So why don’t I feel like celebrating? Why haven’t I ever felt like celebrating?

Maybe it’s just who I am. That melancholy, quiet little girl, who never got excited about anything.

Honestly, it’s weird when I do get excited.

I was reading something the other day about happiness. According to the author, the opposite of love isn’t hate. It’s apathy. And the opposite of happiness isn’t sadness. It’s boredom.

Ergo, according to the author, happiness is excitement.

Maybe that’s my problem, after all. I rarely get excited, and I’ve blogged before about how I feel about happiness. (I suppose I should move that post to this site, if I’m going to reference it.)

That’s probably what it comes down to, in the end, for me: Happy Birthday. That wish that everyone gives you on your special day. And really, is it happy?

Maybe I should ask everyone instead to wish me a “feel-good birthday.” That, perhaps, I can muster.