Tag: tantrum

I’m turning 30 this year.
When I found out the theme for tonight was “Celebrate,” I started thinking about that word. Celebrate. And I realized, I don’t think I really know how to celebrate myself. Which is weird, because I’m gay, Lebanese, kind of a drama queen, and emotionally attached to both Arabic and English pop music. On paper, I should be excellent at it.
And I genuinely love celebrating other people. I love showing up. I love planning. I love hosting. I love making people feel loved. I’m good at it too. Maybe too good. I will plan the timing, the food, the vibe, every small detail and pretend that it’s no big deal, but emotionally, there is a very serious project plan.
But when it’s about me? I become aggressively casual.

A couple of months ago, I “celebrated” two years in Canada by going to a St. Paddy’s gay party at the Junction. Very convenient: one of the biggest celebrations of the year was already happening on my anniversary. The universe forcing me to celebrate my milestones.
Fair play, universe.

But birthdays are worse. Because birthdays are the one day of the year where you’re allowed to be a little self-centered, and I still don’t know what to do with it.
Last year, on my actual birthday, I scored tickets to Lady Gaga’s Mayhem Ball.
Picture this: A gay Lebanese boy, now an adult, watching Lady Gaga sing “Born This Way” live. And then the words: “You’re Lebanese.”
I’m not even that patriotic. But so many of my early queer moments happened with that song playing secretly through wired headphones, pretending I was just listening to music, when really, I was trying to feel seen.
And if Lady Gaga, mother of monsters, said “Lebanese,” not Middle Eastern, not Arab, Lebanese, then she was clearly speaking directly to me. That song was celebrating a part of me before I knew how to celebrate it myself.
It’s going to be hard to top a Lady Gaga concert as a birthday celebration. But this year, I’m turning 30. And there is a version of me who wants the balloons. The cake. The friends. The photos. The whole shebang.
I know he exists, because once, he fought very hard for a birthday party.

I’m the youngest of four boys, which means by the time my parents got to me, the parental sparkle was running on low battery.
But the photos were there. Printed albums. My brothers with their friends. Finger food. Cups of Jell-O. A big cake made by my mom. Awkward parents in the background. Kids playing arcade games and mini golf at this place called Putt Putt.
Putt Putt was everything: Arcade games. Skeeball. Ball pit. Chaos. If you had a birthday there, you were basically local royalty.
Every brother got Putt Putt. Except for me.
To make things worse, my birthday is in August, which is terrible timing if you want a big party as a kid. School is out. Everyone disappears. Half the class is at their village, the other half is at the beach, and suddenly, your birthday is a logistical crisis.
So I made my parents feel bad about it. And it happened that my dad did business with the owners of PuttPutt, so it didn’t take much convincing.
I may have also pulled the “you don’t love me as much as my brothers” card. Bold strategy. But hey, it worked.
And somehow, I convinced my parents to let me do it two months early: June 9, 2006. The day after the last day of school. Also, the first day of the FIFA World Cup, so almost exactly twenty years ago (Very convenient time to tell this story… And very organized of my trauma).
And because it was the World Cup, the theme chose itself. Football.
Now, did I play football? No. Did I care about football? Also no. In fact, I kinda hated it. Playing football as a closeted gay kid with straight boys going through puberty? Not fun.
But it was football season, and you have to understand, people in Lebanon take that very seriously. And I wanted to look cool, so football it was.

I had the party. I had the place. I had the theme. I had the friends. Basically my entire class. This was my moment. I was wearing a Ronaldinho Brazil football costume, because obviously, I LOVE football.
Everyone came, (Well, everyone I invited. I had just gone through a huge fight with my best friend at the time, and I decided not to invite him. I don’t remember what the fight was about, but I was very firm about it. I remember my dad looking at me and asking, “Are you sure you don’t want to invite this boy?” And I said, “Yes. We’re not friends anymore.” I was so sure I didn’t want him there. But for someone I apparently didn’t want there, I kept noticing that he wasn’t).
The party itself was going really well. I remember parents walking in with their kids. I remember the mountain of gifts. I remember my mom’s cake, a forêt noire, with a chocolate football-shaped ganache on top. Keeping it on theme. We’re committed.
Because again: I LOVE football.

Everything was happening exactly how I wanted… then came the piñata. Yup, I had a candy pinata at my birthday party. What shape was the piñata, you ask? A football, of course.
You have to understand, back then, a piñata was a big fucking deal. At that point, I had only seen piñatas on TV in cartoons. So having my own piñata, one I got to choose the candy for? Hell yes.
They hung it up. The kids gathered around. Everyone got a few hits. People were screaming. The energy was rising. And then the birthday boy got the stick.
I started hitting it. I’m going at it. I’m ripping it apart. Everyone is screaming. And then eventually, it breaks.
And the second it broke, it was no longer a birthday party. It was capitalism.
Kids dropped to the floor like wild cats. Hands everywhere. Candy flying. Elbows out. No morals. No friendships. No birthday etiquette. It was my Hunger Games. And I had lost.
Because there I was. The birthday boy. Standing with nothing. I remember looking at my hands and realizing they were empty. And I tried to hold it in. I really did.
But then people started noticing. Kids looked at me. Then they looked at their bags of candy. Then back at me. Suddenly everyone realized, OMG… the birthday boy didn’t get any candy. And because it was my birthday, everyone started offering me some of theirs.

Aww. That’s so sweet.
It was HORRIBLE, because somehow that made it even worse. Now I wasn’t just the birthday boy with no candy. I was the birthday boy everyone felt bad for. And I couldn’t hold it anymore. I started crying. Hard. Not cute crying. Full meltdown. Birthday drama queen.
And if you’re thinking, “Oh God, poor kid, that must have been so embarrassing,” well, there’s more. Even through the tears, I had a plan. What? I’m just gonna stand there and let people feel sorry for me on my fucking birthday? No way José.
I looked at everyone, face fully wet, probably snot involved, and said: “Everyone… throw the candy back on the floor. We’re going again.” Which, looking back, is insane.
Imagine being a kid at a birthday party, and the birthday boy is sobbing, demanding a second round of candy distribution, after going through WrestleMania with at least 20 other kids. Very socialist of me, honestly.
But hey, I was ten. It was my birthday.

Now, I’m not saying this one piñata is the reason I don’t know how to celebrate myself. That would be too easy.
The thing is, when the celebration is for someone else, that works. I get to focus on them. But when it’s for me, suddenly I can’t just enjoy it. I have to manage it.
Is the food enough? Is the music right? Are people bored? Is the lighting homophobic?
And I think that’s the part I still negotiate with. The embarrassment of wanting the day to feel good…. And by good I mean, perfect. Obviously.
Because even now, when someone asks, “What are you doing for your birthday?” I feel this little panic. Like I need to have an answer that sounds casual enough. Not too sad. Not too planned. Not too desperate. Something like, “Oh, nothing big.” Which usually means, “I would love for it to be big, but I’m not ready to be responsible for wanting that out loud.”
But one day, I would love to have a big party that is actually for me. Maybe for another age when I become more chill, because honestly, just saying “my 30th” spikes my anxiety.

But I want to try anyway. And I don’t think I need to top Gaga. I think I’m just trying to find whatever version of that feeling I can make for myself. It could be a big party, with a giant dick-shaped piñata, just for me.
Or maybe it’s quieter than that. A little stoned. Surrounded by people who love me for who I am. Without having to pretend that I like football.
Looking around and realizing I’ve built a life that younger me would not believe.
And honestly, for now, that feels worth celebrating.