BIRTHDAYS

As long as birthdays arrive, you know you are alive. That is the best part as you enter the ‘golden years’. They should be named the diamond years because, by then, you are very hard and brittle, not at all as soft and malleable as gold, when heated.

When I was little, a birthday meant acknowledgment by my mother, who clearly had a different experience of my birth than I. The day meant special considerations and presents. As many birthdays passed, the important landmarks of 16, 18, 21, 30, 40 (note the increment in decades now) there was a change. My mother was no longer around to share the day. In those days fathers did not attend births and seemed only to follow mother’s lead when a day or occasion was to be noted since he never retained a clue.

The experience of having a birthday is now totally changed. It is no longer how many years have I lived but, rather, how many more years might I live! Whereas once the body was searched for signs of budding boobs or hair, now the task of finding bras to lift those pendulous hunks of useless flesh is a new goal. Hair that importantly once appeared is now disappearing with the bonus less shaving necessary. The hair making apparatus is now located above my lips and on my chin. My mind boggles to figure what Nature intended there.

The happiest part, however, of these late birthdays, is the many calls, notes, or cards received. That makes all the years of living that preceded worth while, through whatever in life one slogs (and slogging through describes a major portion of my living). To me, there is no greater pleasure in life than to know how many people I care for who return the feelings.