Personal Holiday

I woke up this morning with a little rush of excitement -- today is my birthday. No matter how many times that event rolls around (and that's a lot), I always feel like a kid on the morning of my birthday. As a friend once described it, birthdays are your personal holiday, a day to hold your head up and remind the world -- subtly or otherwise -- that it should be celebrating today because that was the day you came into it. It also gives you the moral right -- legitimately -- to hold people up and demand loot, and make them feel guilty if they don't stand and deliver.

I went into the living room to check my e-mail, the way I always do, and found a cute homemade birthday card on the desk. My significant other spent hours working on it last night as I pretended not to notice. Sure, he saved two or three bucks by drawing it on the computer instead of braving the dreaded local Hallmark store, but it admittedly was highly personalized, with squiggly computer drawings of a Blue Jay, an Oriole, and a Blue Fronted Amazon parrot (three favorite birds of mine). It was thoughtful, too: as I read it, I heard a soft chip and little feet skittering on the windowsill above my head, and looking up I spied the vivid red beak and equally red topknot of a Cardinal peeking over the sill at me. Mr. Sweetie had designed his card with the realization that his birthday sentiments would be accompanied by live greetings from breakfasting avians at the window feeder. Corny, maybe, but charming.

There was an e-mail from my oldest friend in California, saying she had sent me something for my birthday and apologizing because I probably wouldn't receive it by today. I could hardly blame her; she's legally blind and flat broke, and is presently living a distinctly un-holidaylike lifestyle in an RV with her husband, moving from campsite to parking lot and back again. Oh, and as if that isn't enough to excuse her, she also has a rare blood cancer. Under the circumstances, her gift, whatever it might be, will be very special indeed.

Next I checked Facebook, that abysmal and dubious timesink. As usual, everyone was taking online quizzes to determine what color crayon they were, or how many composers of one-hit wonder Top 40 singles from the '70s they could correctly ID. Apparently no one had time to wish me happy birthday, not even the gregarious souls who had requested permission to include my birthdate in their address books. Phooey on them; I know what color crayon they are in my book: poot brown. Actually, one friend on FB (whom I know from real, as opposed to virtual, life) did claim last week that he wanted to send me "something" -- a statement I won't be able to verify until the next time I check my PO box. In "real" life this friend is a probation/parole officer, so maybe the item in question isn't a birthday present, but a summons.

I always liked the custom in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy whereby the hobbits gave presents to other people on their own birthdays. This year my "present" to someone else is the return of two CD's to a friend from whom I borrowed them last year. Since he asked me rather firmly to give them back, and offered to come and pick them up, maybe it isn't really a present, per se, but I'm sure he'll appreciate it, since he probably figured he'd never see them again.

In the long run, I suppose what happens to us on our birthdays reflects everything else in our lives -- the type of people that surround us, our own attitudes, our actions toward others. Admittedly I have some flaky friends who can never remember when I was born -- they know who they are -- but so what? That doesn't detract one Angstrom from the quality of my life. Of course it would have been exhilarating to have been greeted this morning by a full-orchestral birthday fanfare under my bedroom window, but there's always next year. OK, deadbeats, mark that date in your Facebook friends-info list. You have 364 days to get on it, and you will be held accountable!