Heavens, Make A Fuss

            By all means, make a fuss. 

            I have never, and I’m confident in saying I will never tell anyone in my life to refrain from making a fuss over me.  Over my birthday, anniversary, Christmas, Father’s Day, National Blueberry Pie Day…I don’t care.   I’ll take it all.  Cards, gifts, surprise trips, parties, visits. Whatever it is.  I want it. 

            Without plumbing the dark briny depths of my low self-esteem, it is safe to say that I grew up feeling like I wasn’t worth the price of a postage stamp.  I was invisible, worthless, a non-person.  If I was ignored I deserved it.

            That type of shit.

            But, to their credit, and probably to their financial detriment, my parents busted out some great Christmases. I have a few solid memories of Decembers long past and that’s probably why I hold onto that holiday.  But I grew older in America, where we celebrate everything.  Surprise parties and office parties and retirement parties and cards for every occasion.  I have such a chasm in my life that requires attention, an unfillable hole that I carry around with me every day, that even the cheap gestures have intense meaning for me.  Those cards that are passed around in the office that everyone signs on your birthday?  I kept them.  When Facebook reminds everyone that its your birthday?  You bet I read all of those posts.  I also give everyone a happy birthday.

            Everyone deserves at least the wish of a happy birthday, right?

            My wife does not like a fuss made over her.  It’s a personality trait.  I think I’ll blame it on Anglo-Saxon roots. Years ago, I got her family involved in a surprise party for her.  The plan was to tell her that I was taking her out for dinner, but we had to stop over at her aunt’s house for a gift.  They were all there and they shouted Surprise!  About ten minutes in, my wife asked “So, we’re not going to dinner?”

            That was the first and last of her surprise parties. 

            Me?  I’d take one every year. I don’t give a damn.  My birthday and Father’s Day are usually close together (or the same day, like 2021) so I get combo gifts if I get anything.  Cool with me.  One year, when the kids were teens and busy with their own stuff, I had a Father’s Day without a single recognition.  No cards, no ‘Happy Dad’s Day’, no rainchecks for gifts given after payday.  Nothing.  We had dinner together in our dining room that night and I was pissed.  I let everyone know that I did not support a house where we didn’t make a fuss over each other.  What is life for?  What is the point of all of this running around and day-to-day bullshit if you can’t exchange tokens of appreciation?  It doesn’t have to be stuff.  A damn hug is something!

            You are seen.  You are valued.  We love you.  Thank you.

            Ever heard of love languages? It’s the way you wish to receive love.  Not surprisingly, I like to hear the words of affirmation.  Now, I did marry one of the quietest people I’ve ever met, but her words carry more weight that way, too.  But that’s relationships.  There are also gatherings and get-togethers and hangouts.  My instincts are to go big. Make a bunch of food, put music on, maybe play a game.  Does that happen?  Not very much at all.  But my drive to make a fuss is still around. 

            Go all out. Go nuts.  Make a big deal.  Take a bunch of dumb photos.

            I’ve heard of people having wakes and funerals before they die.  A celebration of life when someone reaches a certain milestone of age, and the guest of honor can enjoy all the toasts and speeches while they are still breathing.  Needless to say, I love that idea.  Sign me up.  Make a big fuss.  I don’t care how old I am, I’ll put the playlist together.