We celebrate birthdays, once a year for each person in the world, every year until the person dies. But why? Birthdays celebrate your day of birth, the date of which and the means of which you really had no role to play. By all rights, birthdays should be a day where mothers are given presents for pushing you through their ‘birth canal’ (as a friend once wrote in my birthday card) in considerable pain for what could have been up to three days (example: me.) and carrying you around for nine months or so enduring mood swings and weight gain so dramatic as to send one into a depression.
And then there’s the means by which we celebrate our day of birth. Presents are given for no real reason other than the fact that you are alive (although being nice helps) and classmates and workmates cheerily chirp “Happy Birthday!” at you, no matter how miserable the look is that is plastered onto your face, or nobody says it and you remain unnoticed and miserable on this ‘happy’ day.
Birthdays, ultimately, are pointless.