What is a Birthday, Really?

What is a birthday, really? It's the day you were born. It's the day to mark when you came out of your mother's crotch with eyes and mouth open or when the poor woman was filleted to bring you into the world. To outsiders, it's just another fucking day. But to you, and those close to you, it's a special day. And there's the rub.

I don't get the birthday blues from thoughts of getting older. Nor does my birthday turn into an annual existential crisis. I have those weekly. The birthday is a big reminder that I am far from loved ones and those who have a familial obligation to make a normal Thursday a day of self-indulgent fun. When a calendar holiday rolls around, communities tend to take pity on those without. They volunteer at a homeless shelter or invite their single friends over for ham. Not so on the birthday, unless you send out subtle signals that, I'm convinced, make you look like an ass. "What's up for this weekend?" "Oh, it's my birthday, so I thought I'd check out a few good books from the library and cry myself to sleep. You?"

I had a chat with AB this morning on a walk to the Mission where she said there's no shame in telling people it's your birthday and that dammit, you want to do something fun. In fact, she's the superhero who is throwing me a birthday party after I sent out the aforementioned not-so-subtle signal. She suggested that I spend "my" day eating, drinking, spending and being merry. "Call up some friends and have them meet you for brunch with mimosas. Then go shopping or get your nails done. I expect to see you at my place that night with shiny toes or a new outfit. Anne Taylor's Loft just opened at the mall and is begging for exploration. Get on it." Now there is a friend, people--someone who encourages shameless self-absorbency at least once a year. And I thank her for it!

So here is the plan. Instead of spending the day slogging around like sad-girl or bursting at the seams with birthday glee but stifling it because "hey, it's my birthday" sounds like a stupid way to greet friends, I will announce it to all who tell me to stop flashing my freakish serial killer permagrin. "Fuck off! It's my birf-day, BI-YOTCH! Hahahahaha!" and I will skip away feeling happy. I _will_ call friends for mimosas, I _will_ go to the spa and I _will_ buy my own damned birthday cake from Baskin-Robbins, the kind with the chocolate cake bottom and mint-chocolate-chip top, just like mamma used to make. And I'll have them write in frosting across the cheery balloon decor: "Happy Fucking Birthday!!!"

Birthdays ARE special days and are meant to be treated as such. Get the party hats people 'cause there's no moping or subtle celebrations here!! So there. Humph.