by Eve Stenson

No doubt I had an excellent view of the Statue of Liberty, the Hudson River and Manhattan itself, but I wasn’t looking. Swinging through the air by my knees, all I could think about was how very badly I wanted to do this perfectly, to find the hands there to catch me, to continue my flight forward successfully. After all, it’s not every day you get a surprise trapeze lesson for your birthday.

I’d been told we were all going kayaking that Sunday morning in August, so I thought I was being funny when we walked past Trapeze School New York, and I asked, "Can we do that instead?"

One of my friends glanced at me and inquired, "Do you really want to?"

"Yes . . ." I said slowly, giving him an odd look.

"Good," he replied, "because that’s what we’re really doing. Happy Birthday, Eve!"

The entire lesson was great fun – swinging high in the air, practicing the positions, flipping off afterward. It wasn’t until the very end, though, that we got to try a catch – to go from the one trapeze to the grasp of the instructor on the other.

The first time I tried, I was so close. But the instructor was almost as short as I am, and we weren’t quite near enough in the air to reach. I had to swing back the way I’d come and give the next person a try. After everyone had gone, though, there was time for one more turn, and I was given that last chance. I dearly wished to make the most of it all: the final attempt, the lesson as a whole, and indeed the very act of celebrating itself.

You see, it’s been many years since I cared to do anything out of the ordinary for my birthday. Last year, I was content to spend the day moving into my dorm. Both of the two previous summers, I was counseling at a gymnastics camp, where nobody even had to know about my birthday, unless some nosy little camper happened to ask when it was.

This is not to say I was ever neglected in the least. In grade school I enjoyed the requisite childhood parties: roller skating, or picnics, or whatnot. And through high school and college, I would receive gifts from family members, who were also very conscientious about having a cake after dinner with my name and the appropriate number of candles. But I had decided that that was more than enough of a to-do for me.

I’m not sure what it was that turned me off birthdays. I certainly don’t harbor any dislike for being the center of attention; my penchant for tumbling through hallways given any willing audience is proof enough of that. I’m too young to be worried about aging. Besides, I still look like I’m 12. (In a museum last month, an employee – trying to be helpful – asked if I were lost.)

But it’s not as though it felt any different to "turn" a year older – it was just one more day in a fairly arbitrary numbering system. Sure, it was cool to be legally allowed to vote or to drive, but neither "first" actually took place on my birthday; it seemed like passing my driving test would be a more legitimate reason to celebrate.

Turning 21 was even less enticing, since I’m not especially fond of alcohol. I had also witnessed and heard tales of enough 21st birthday debacles to find that particular benchmark notably distasteful. Perhaps that birthday tradition deterred my sensibilities in general. Or perhaps my views were influenced by kids I knew when I was little who would invite to their celebrations guests they disliked, just to get the additional presents.

Regardless of why, I simply came to feel that birthday fuss was unnecessary, at least for me. I certainly hadn’t done much in the first place to merit congratulations. If anything, it’d be my mother who deserved the kudos, being the one who went through the umpteen-hour labor. (On top of that, I had been due at the end of July; my birthday is August 12.)

And if I don’t feel strongly one way or another, I asked, why should I put anyone else through the hassle of having to plan an event or mark the date?

Recently, though, I’ve had to reevaluate my rejection of traditional observances. First, I had a friend who explained the phenomenon to me in a most discerning fashion: "When I wish someone a happy birthday," he said, "I’m telling them that I am happy they exist." I realize that not everyone translates the phrase exactly as such. Yet, it was suddenly a little more meaningful this year to hear it said to me (not to mention the full-length musical voicemails).

Then, I considered how much I’ve enjoyed marking the birthdays of people I care about. Whether it involved an elaborate Redi-Whip ambush or just a surprise party in Walsh (which, admittedly, might have become a little less surprising after the fourth or fifth time), it was a joy, not a hassle. It occurred to me that maybe I didn’t always need to actively avoid similar forms of revelry. (Well, except for the Redi-Whip version – that I would like to actively avoid.)

Finally, and perhaps most persuasively, I found myself soaring through the air on a flying trapeze.

Hanging from my knees, as I ascended I stretched my arms above my head, arched my back as far as I could . . . glimpsed the hands of the instructor in front of me, as we hung suspended in space for that split second at the tops of our respective arcs . . . and caught them.

"You know," I thought, as my trapeze receded behind me, and I swung on ahead, "I guess birthdays aren’t so bad, after all."

(published in The Ram, 17 September 2003)