My dear old grandmother, bless her heart, was never entirely sure what year she was born. Lucky woman. These days we not only know the year, but month, day, time, and weight upon arrival. We’re fingerprinted, footprinted, photographed, certified, and listed as a tax deduction. Birthdays are hard to duck with all that proof. And they’re usually a disappointment, anyway, after you turn thirty or so. At my age, it’s not so much disappointing as it is piling on. Enough already.
After last year’s party, I woke up woozy and bloated in the recliner, buried under a blizzard of Cheetos dust. Why, oh why, do I buy Cheetos in the family size bags? For days I found bright yellow fingerprints everywhere. On the dog, for instance. Well, this year is going to be different.
This year, I’m not buying any Cheetos. Plus the recliner’s gone, a gift to Goodwill.
Other than that? The same old. No fancy schmancy dinner. No being whisked off to Paris. No day of pampering at a luxury spa. Just another Wednesday. And, you know, that’s fine with me. Drinking makes me throw up, dancing makes me dizzy, exotic trips leave me disoriented, expensive jewelry is, yikes, how much?
I’m an oddity. My idea of birthday bliss is a three figure gift card and an afternoon in a bookstore. I know, I need to set my sights higher. Okay, how’s this? Snap a party hat on the dog, put a plate of enchiladas in front of me, and par-TAY. No? Well, that’s as grand as I get. Oprah, she’d love a big, over-sized fuss on her birthday — celebrities, flash, glitter, gushing compliments. But I’m not Oprah.
I’m me. I’ve tried to be other people, but can’t pull it off. I bob to the surface like a cork. Every single time. Now, I’m off to wander the aisles of the bookstore until the cows come home. And I wish for you a birthday that’s every bit as blissful.
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