Any-Mom » What Day Is It?

What Day Is It?

10.28.2008 | Author: OrganizerMom | Posted in Our Bodies, Our Selves

I don’t care much about my birthday anymore. Maybe because I’ve had so many of them they are no longer special. I remember my 16th was a big event. My father took me and about ten friends out to dinner at a family restaurant and paid for it without blinking an eye. Inside, though, he must have been crying at the several hundred dollar bill. He grew up in the Depression and the war years and was the most frugal man I’ve ever known.

My 21st must have been an exciting birthday. I can’t remember how I celebrated, but I’m sure it involved large quantities of alcohol. My 30th was the next big milestone. Again, I have no recollection of how I spent it, but it also probably involved heavy drinking. I do know I wasn’t bothered by turning 30. I still looked good, felt great, and didn’t mind entering a new decade. In fact, I took great delight in getting carded at a liquor store or bar. “But, I’m 30 years old!!!” I would exclaim in fake indignation. Later I found out that these places carded anyone who looked under 30 by way of general policy. And here I thought I was special.

One birthday I remember fondly was one in my 30′s just after I started dating my future husband. He arranged a dinner at my favorite restaurant with all our friends. I looked hot that night and I was riding high with my new love of my life and promising future. Later we went dancing. I had so much fun that night that I almost didn’t even mind that my girlfriend screwed up and ordered a chocolate cake with coconut in it. I’m a purist when it comes to chocolate and I don’t suffer any unauthorized ingredients.

40 is usually a big birthday for people. 40 signals that your youth is over and it’s all downhill from there. On my 40th, we had parents and siblings over and ate pizza and chocolate cake (no coconut). Turning 40 didn’t really feel any different from being in my late 30′s. And once I had my son, it was really all about him. My birthdays were no longer the event of the year.

Last week’s birthday was nothing special. Which was fine by me because I didn’t want to do anything much. I don’t care about birthdays, remember?

Strangely, more members of my extended family remembered my birthday than my immediate family. My cousin sent an email telling me to go outside and get some fresh air (how does she know I’m glued to the computer all day?). My aunt called to inform me that my parents are the only ones she knows of who had sex in January as I’m the only October birthday on her list. Okaaaaayyyyy. My husband’s brother called to tell my husband to expect a cooking magazine for himself and a gardening magazine for me. Wa??? It’s not my husband’s birthday, why does he get a magazine, too? Another in-law sent a box full of antiques scrounged up at a local store. I do like antiques, but I am replete with stuff, and ceramic candlesticks in a delicate floral pattern are not really my style. Even my dentist remembered me with an email. Ditto my Honda salesman, whose cards always arrive on my EXACT birthday – how does he do that?

Immediate family was hit-or-miss. My husband came through with a cool pair of boots that I had circled in a catalog. He even had them there by the day, which is unusual. Typically, he’ll be holed away in the computer room the night before my birthday, frantically ordering items online. Then he’ll have them delivered at outrageous cost using next-day air. I find this really irritating and it takes away from the pleasure of the gift. My mom, of course, never forgets my birthday and always is prepared with gifts. My mother-in-law, on the other hand, was MIA this year. She never even sent a card or acknowledged me in any way. Ditto my dad. That one could be my fault since I may have forgotten to enter my birthday in the pocket calendar I buy him for Christmas every year. I mean, I can’t really expect him to remember the birth of his only daughter independently, now can I?

All these slights would bother me, but I don’t care about my birthday. Really.