I’VE started calling them drop goal invitations because they come with such promise, then plummet disappointingly outside the posts.
“Are you free on June 21 for Belinda’s hen night? A few drinks, dinner, perhaps a dance.”
“Excellent,” I type back. “I’ll be there. Can’t wait.”
Then another email a week later.
“OK, we’ve decided to go pole dancing. Then for a dinner cruise on the harbour. It’s a secret so don’t tell Belinda but we know she’s going to love it.”
Oh great. Who cares if Belinda’s going to love it? I’m not going to love it. My wallet’s not going to love it. My thighs aren’t going to love it (I’ve done pole dancing once before and it would’ve been fine but for the pole. And the Heidi does Playboy costume).
Grannies are at it too. Well, possibly not pole dancing, but the whole “come-over-for-a-cuppa-but-actually-it’s-a-party-because-I’m-going-to-be-a-grandmother-so-please-bring-a-gift” thing.
Never heard of grandmother showers? Well, they’re a thing. Clearly bored with the usual round of weddings, christenings and silver anniversaries, grannies-to-be have become the latest shameless gift grabbers on the grounds that “it’s a new phase in a woman’s life”.
There you go — I thought being a grandparent was about adding value to a little person’s life, not crowing about your own role in it. Silly me.
I don’t mean to be a fun hydrant. I’ve been known to stick a candle in a lasagne when there’s no cake to hand, and there’s a whole playlist of party tunes on my iPhone for impromptu merrymaking. But when did the timeless, humble celebration of the “we” turn into the brazen, grasping festival of “me”?
I blame the Kardashians. There we all were respectfully turning out at dawn for Anzac Day and happily inviting the neighbourhood over for a few snags on Australia Day. Birthdays were marked with a simple cake, weddings by a heartfelt speech, births by … well, the miracle that is birth.
And so we have weddings that go on for days and are held in Tahiti because the bride and groom thought they might like a “French theme”, even though neither can translate “nous sommes ridicules”.
We have gender reveal parties where the wonderment of birth is reduced to a towering edifice of over-iced sponge laced with the requisite cochineal. Cut into a slice and you can tell your family and friends what flavour, sorry, gender your baby is going to be. And just in — “sten” parties, joint stag and hen parties which sound suspiciously like a double fleecing of your nearest and dearest.
The best 40th I’ve been to was a “no gifts” BYO chair, bottle and salad, held on a huge rock overlooking the harbour. We barbecued, sang and, in turn, recounted our favourite story involving the birthday boy.
Celebrations, at heart, are the manifestation of optimism and gratitude. Traditionally they’re anchored to the religious calendar or world events that demand we sit up, take notice and remember. A good measure? If there’s a poem written about it then it’s probably worthy of our attention.
Last week marked the 70th anniversary of D-Day. Next year is the centenary of the ANZAC landings at Gallipoli. Both are meaningful celebrations of valour and sacrifice, of the collective, not the individual.
As we blunder down the path of gift registries for one-year-olds and pamper parties for eight-year-olds, we’d do well to remember what is genuinely worth celebrating: those who, according to John McCrae’s In Flanders Fields, simply “loved and were loved.”
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