“When’s your birthday?”
“February 14th.”
“Aw, a Valentine’s baby!”
Any photo of me as a child in the many photo albums stocked in my basement hints at my birthday. A photo of me as a toddler stumbling through my front yard in a onesie adorned with hearts – with a matching hat of course. A year later, I’m photographed among a pile of stuffed animals, wearing a white long sleeve shirt with hearts dotted all along the front. I was the Valentine’s baby. Into elementary school, I didn’t think much of it. (Aside from the one time in second grade when a boy in my class told me that cupid was a demon and so, by extension, I must be a demon too since I was born on the same day as this so-called demon baby. Thanks for that, Sam). In fact, I loved that I got to bring in a shoebox topped with toilet paper rolls as my castle-shaped mailbox to exchange cards with my peers. The day was marked by candy and crafts, how could I hate it?
Queue the early teen years. I finally understood that the day extended beyond a box of cards with cheesy puns and cartoon characters. It was about love. And, as with most girls my age, we were momentarily disgusted by the opposite sex and wanted nothing to do with their cooties. Therefore, I wanted nothing to do with my birthday. I remember one of my birthday parties where my friends and I set up a sleepover in my living room, camped out in front of the TV to watch the movie Valentine’s Day. Once I got over the initial hatred of recognizing what day my birthday fell on, I loved the movie because of the one girl who throws an annual anti-Valentine’s day party in an Indian restaurant. My dad happened to work next to an Indian restaurant, so I saw my future self in her, and practically vowed to become her. But I was also sad that she was all alone every year, so I wasn’t the only one to make a vow that night. I made my friends promise to always be with me on my birthday, even when they were in relationships. Yes, this was incredibly naive, but hey, I was twelve. My friends, however, wholeheartedly agreed. And three years later when February rolled around and one of my best friends was in the “talking stage” with a guy, I was worried she would forget the promise. But my birthday came and she was there at my party. We ate cake and laughed and played stupid games. It was only when she was leaving for the night that she told me that guy had become her boyfriend a few days before, but she hadn’t told me so we could enjoy that night as my night, together. I was so grateful to have someone who understood how important my birthday was to me.
The love-hating stage didn’t last forever. In my senior year of high school, I had a boyfriend by the time my birthday came around. I didn’t know how to handle it at first. Ultimately, I decided to treat it as I always had – as two separate days. So on the 15th, when I went over to his house to celebrate Valentine’s Day, I was pleased to find he understood that separation when he handed me a birthday present and a Valentine’s Day present. That’s how you win a Valentine baby’s heart.
By the time of my freshman year of college, I was single and realized my new friends had never taken any sort of controlling, years-old vow that my hometown friends had graciously abided by. So when my birthday came and half of my friends were out with their boyfriends and the others were stuck in class, I found myself sitting in the front row of a Bella Thorne movie. Front row at a movie theater and Bella Thorne are two undesirable things on their own, but to combine them on my birthday was beyond disheartening. The night eventually ended in milkshakes, so it wasn’t all that bad.
From neglecting any notion of love in association with my birthday, to accepting it and loving those who respected my birthday, I’ve gone through many feelings regarding being born on Valentine’s Day. Whenever people had asked for my birthday and heard the response, they would act like it was the best thing in the world. I would always reply that I hated it, and I still reply that way. The difference is, back then I would say it because it was true. But now, I guess it’s not that big of a deal. I still think it’s an overrated day that’s just another excuse to celebrate anything at all, but I know some people need a reason to celebrate. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown up sharing my birthday with a commercial holiday, but I would rather appreciate what I have every day more than once a year. However, I will admittedly always be more worried about if I will have someone to celebrate my birthday with than if stores are selling conversation hearts or not.