At the stroke of 12midnight, a call came in.
She said, “Happy birthday! I—“
“Wow, thanks… wow,” I said. Sleepy.
“I just want to
be the first to wish you a happy birthday,” she said.
“Wow. Thanks. Actually, you are the first to wish me a happy birthday.”
The call ended. I didn’t hear another peep till daylight. Which means one of two things: I’ve not got many friends, or people now follow my instruction to text instead of calling, because, of course, SMS > calls.
Beyond that, though, I’m thinking, who invented the idea of celebrating birthdays? How come it’s so important? What would happen if we didn’t count our days or if we counted them differently? What if we celebrated birthdays every month, the way it’s done for babies before they clock one?
Somebody asked me, “Do you feel older?”
“Nope,” I said. I feel exactly as I felt yesterday.
But then, also yesterday, a guy who was seeing me for the first time in five years said, “I knew that was you! But, boy, have you added weight.”
I shrugged and laughed. Yes indeed. I’m not fat, though. I think I look just right for my age.
Perspective. I think that’s what’s important for birthdays.
You may be behind. You may be ahead. You may be doing better; you may just be carrying on as you always have.
No one is keeping score but you. Even if you think others are, trust me, they are too occupied with their own problems to let your life’s little titbits distract them. My life goals are all mine to score.
So I ate some fruit scones. It’d been a year since I tried some. They’re glorious. I ate them in moderation. I’m doing everything in moderation these days. I think I’m good, thank you.
And thanks for the birthday wishes.