We need to celebrate the important moments, not every part of our lives, writes Angela Mollard

 “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.
What next? Menopause Mardi Gras? Potty parties? Shaving soirees? Vasectomy valedictions? Is there any event in our lives that we don’t now celebrate? A week that doesn’t demand we crack open the champagne and buy yet another gift? Surely it’s only a matter of time before we anoint the prosaic days of the week with greater meaning — Mash Up Monday, Two Rounds Tuesday ...
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.
Then reality television’s first family came along with their push presents and “weddings are a fun day out” philosophy (I’m winging it here) and suddenly the rest of us think we have to shimmer up what were once perfectly lovely little lives.
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.
Call me mean-spirited, but I’m over the crass commercialisation and the hyper-celebration of what is, effectively, life. By all means, break out the fairy lights and whoop and kiss and smile and dance, but does it all have to be marked by Tiffany jewellery and $80-a-head catering?
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 Christmas, after a feast of salmon and schnapps with some Swedish mates, followed by the kids strumming out a few Bruno Mars covers, I read T.S. Eliot’s Journey of the Magi. Of course they groaned. Of course they won’t remember it. But for a few moments it wasn’t about new surfboards or a PlayStation or whether they could nick another bottle of Coke, but three guys, a camel and a baby.
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.”