I LOVE BIRTHDAYS.
Call me crazy--I wear that Southern-color title well--but I actually like celebrating my birthday.
Cake without guilt; cards that make me snort-laugh; scrolling through Facebook well-wishers to hit the LIKE button.
Every person deserves to feel sparkly, if even only for one day a year.
By the time I reached the "woman-of-a-certain-age" category, much of life's deep magic had evaporated. Santa zoomed off with his reindeer and sleigh before I hit age eight. The Easter bunny hopped away as soon as that ludicrous fable ceased to make even a dab of sense. Chickens should deliver eggs. Someone was on crack (or hitting the vino) when they came up with that blend of warped reality.
Kids will believe anything for a glittery present or chocolate egg.
The commercial, generated, Hallmark occasions morphed into overdone, forced routines. They keep the florists and jewelry stores busy, so they're not all bad, I suppose.
But, a birthday? There's one personal throw-down no one can steal. Not unless I choose to sit the bench. And I don't.
Why do people lie about age? Stay young at heart, yes. Keep the body and mind as fit as possible, sure. Cultivate cornrows of laugh lines and some shimmery silver hair, absolutely.
But own those years.
My age is not "just a number." It is a badge of honor and, at times, courage.
Bring on the cake. Nix a few of the lighted candles, though. No need to be OCD and court the fire alarm.
Better idea: you should estimate how long you might live. Start off with that many candles, while you still have the breath and endurance to snuff them with one hard blow. It would grow easier each successive year, and serve as a reminder that your time is limited, not to take one moment for granted.
I have such good ideas. Really.
Hand over the silly, corn-pone, snarky cards. I will relish and deeply appreciate every post, text, voicemail message, tweet, and freep.
'Cause it's my birthday and I have a perfectly good suit to go along with it.