I'm a birthday candle addict

We all have our harmless quirks.

For example, I can’t sleep with my feet under the covers, no matter how cold it is. And when I’m home, I eat Eggo waffles with my hands, no matter if the waffles are sloppy with butter and syrup. They just taste better that way. And also, I pronounce it “sear-up,” not “sir-up,” which drives people crazy for some reason.

But my biggest quirk has to do with birthday candles. Specifically, I must have the exact number of birthday candles on my cake.

This is no big deal if you’re 6. But I turned 47 this summer. So yeah, I guess it’s a little unusual. I don’t know of anybody else who insists on this. Quite the opposite, actually—most people just want a few dainty candles to blow out. Not me. At my house, it's not a birthday unless there's a raging inferno and everybody's fanning the smoke alarms.

And every year, my family gives me flak. I truly don’t see why. Part of their excuse is that we are “wasting money” on candles, which, as arguments go, is ridiculous. Each box of 25 candles costs 99 cents at Kroger, so $1.98 for two boxes is a tiny price to pay for a moment of sheer joy. Even if I make it to 100, I'll still be spending less than 5 bucks, and I can’t think of anything else in the world that brings an adult that much happiness for that cheap. (Nothing that’s G-rated, at least.)

Still, I started to wonder why I'm so fanatical about this, and I realized the answer quickly: I don’t like to share.

I grew up as the youngest of three kids. My sister, brother and I were all three years apart. I got a lot of hand-me-downs: clothes, toys, bedroom furniture, you name it. This is hardly unusual for a family with three kids. But the thing that really bothered me was hand-me-down birthday candles in the shape of numbers. “We’ll reuse these for the next birthday,” one of my parents would say after my brother, sister, Mom or Dad blew out their candles. Mom would wipe off the frosting and tuck those big purple, yellow or blue numbers back into their Tupperware container with a familiar gssssssh of the lid.

Oh, sure. It was economical. It was the ‘70s and ‘80s, and we weren't rich. And with five people in the house, it made sense. Still, those recycled candles mocked me year after year. Ha ha! More hand-me-downs! they’d ridicule. You’re not special. All you ever get is leftovers!

Setting aside the fact that I was an "Afterschool Special" waiting to happen (we could call that episode The Birthday Voices: Why Nobody Invites Lauren Anymore), my birthday-candle trauma actually started way before that, all the way back to my first birthday.

Here I am on the big day in 1974 with my siblings, Gina and Joe. We're a hot mess. Where’s my other shoe?

Cuteness aside, see how my brother is chomping on something? He's eating my birthday cupcake. And—for the love of god, nooooooooo—he blew out my candle, too. Take note of the stunned look on my pudgy, frosting-smeared face, my eyes searching the camera for answers. I must've gotten a taste of that glorious treat, if only for a minute, before being introduced to the cruel ways of the world by my thieving 4-year-old brother. My sister, obviously not a proponent of “see something, say something,” stands idly by, looking at both of us with a tinge of annoyance. Perhaps she knew our brother would swipe his frosting-covered hands all over her dress if she tattled. Perhaps she was waiting for her annoying baby sister to burst into tears. Or perhaps, in her 7-year-old wisdom, she knew that our Mom was about to lose her shit, having just spent 10 minutes trying to get me to keep my shoes on, not to mention my party hat (victory!), all the while trying to get the three of us to look at the camera (FAIL!), and would you PLEASE JUST STAND STILL ALREADY because there’s only 12 exposures on a roll, and it costs a fortune to get film developed in 1974, and Joe, I cannot believe you just ate your sister's cupcake! Yes, Gina probably recognized all this in the moment and decided to keep her mouth shut. A wise decision, really.

Still, something must have changed in me that day. From then on, I was making every birthday count. And by count, I mean literally count.

Here's a smattering of past birthdays:

My 5th birthday

That last photo, in case you're wondering, was this year's COVID cake. We covered it in aluminum foil so I wouldn't breathe all over it and potentially spread something other than cheer. As it turns out, people with seemingly little else to do during the pandemic have invented things called "cake shields," but this cheap version worked just fine. Of course, you could also try blowing out your candles the way Mitt Romney (yes, that Mitt Romney) does it. In March 2019, long before the pandemic happened, people made fun of him online (shocking, I know) when they saw video of him plucking candles out of his birthday cake and blowing them out one by one. All I have to say to that is: Who's laughing now, bub?

Anyway, I don't see my fascination with candles ending anytime soon—but the pandemic may have other ideas. Turns out, my cheap birthday candles—like most other cheap stuff—are MADE IN CHINA. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if I had to start trading toilet paper for candles. (Wouldn't that be a weird day.)

So I guess now I have to start hoarding. Also, until now I had never read the instructions on the back of the box, including the warning to "extinguish candle before throwing away." That's some darned good advice right there. It's a miracle I survived this long.

Nevertheless, I'm going to keep being me. I know plenty of people who say their birthday is just another day. For me, that couldn’t be further from the truth. My birthday is my day. And why not, really? What’s wrong with celebrating yourself? Don’t each of us deserve to be in the spotlight for 24 hours? Think of all the good things you've done this year. Think of all the cupcakes you didn't steal from pudgy children!

So bask in the glow ... especially if that glow is the fireball coming from your cake.