Diary of a Gen Z Student: It's my 21st birthday party and I'll complain if I want to

Turning 21 should be a celebration, but for me, it's a high-pressure spectacle of cake, candles, and awkward serenades I’d rather avoid

Jane Cowan: 'I’ll be turning 21 next week. It’s not that I’m not looking forward to it. But I would be lying if I said I was enthused by the idea of it'. Picture: Barry Cronin

I recently found myself in the depths of the Cowan family archives looking at photos and videos from my childhood. It’s funny to recognise parts of your personality peaking through in a video taken before you could tie your own shoelaces. But that’s what I was watching. White blond ringlets on my head, fully clad in pink, stomping around the house with a handbag. 

One particular video was taken on my third birthday. I’m watch TV in the living room with my grandad. My mother starts filming from the hallway, singing happy birthday as she walks into the room. I’m three, so don’t possess much in the way of cat-like reflexes. As I realise what’s happening, I throw those ringlets down onto a pillow beside me and pretend to sleep. Apparently, I didn’t much enjoy being serenaded at that age. And not much has changed over the years.

You see, I’ll be turning 21 next week. It’s not that I’m not looking forward to it. But I would be lying if I said I was enthused by the idea of it. Sure, I’ll be another year older and wiser. I’ll finally be able to get into a bar or nightclub on a Friday or Saturday night, without having to enter into negotiations with the bouncer. Negotiations where my only bargaining chip tends to be something along the lines of ‘I’m mature for my age, I swear!’ But as three-year-old Jane managed to make abundantly clear, I’m not really one for a birthday celebration. The idea of sitting in the middle of a room of people as they sing happy birthday to me, then blowing out the candles on a big cake, it’s all so strange, if you think about it too much.

But that’s not even the worst part of a birthday. When it comes to the gifting portion of the event, the pressure starts to mount. Opening gifts in front of an audience is high octane stuff. It feels like you’ve got to have to right reaction to a gift, the second you break through the wrapping paper. You’re being watched from every angle. If you don’t let out a gasp at the perfect frequency upon seeing a new pair of socks, you may as well add ‘ungrateful so and so’ to your CV. But even for someone as dramatic as myself, it is difficult to give the audience exactly what they’re looking for. What’s the correct reaction to a book? Don’t get me wrong, I am very grateful. But if you’re the birthday girl, it can be difficult to express that gratitude on command.

With all of that in mind, it’s no wonder I have some reservations about turning 21. Because for some reason, it’s considered a ‘big’ birthday. Which means that I’m supposed to want to participate in an equally ‘big’ celebration. A party with all the relatives, secondary school friends, college friends, miscellaneous friends, and the parish priest if he plays his cards right. 

I can’t even begin to conceptualise this gathering. That’s a lot of different groups to attempt to coordinate. Because if it’s your birthday, you want to make sure people are having a good time. But it’s not easy to keep that many people entertained, much less to find a Spotify playlist that can accommodate a multi generational crowd. I’m just one woman.

 Maybe I just was not bred for this lifestyle. God forgot to add a dash of birthday cheer to my genetics.Maybe it’s just the idea of it being labelled a birthday party. Maybe it sounds very Gen Z of me, but that label adds too much expectation. I’d be happier if I could get the slice of cake without any explicit mentions of my age, without my mother’s annual ‘This time 21 years ago…’ speech. But here we are. These things are far bigger than me. It seems, I’m fighting a losing battle. 

Part of the absurdity that it is to be human, is to participate in singing and cake and gifts every year. Clearly, I’ve been trying for a long time to evade the birthday celebrations. And those efforts haven’t gotten me very far. So I probably won’t make it through the next week without the annual serenade. In reality, I know I’m lucky to have this problem, to have enough people that care about me, that they’ll sing to me every year. And I love them for that. But it’s my birthday and I’ll complain if I want to.