HBTM, HBTM, HBTDM, HBTM.

More than any other holiday, the anniversary of my birth is sacred. I feel that way about everyone’s birthday. It is the one day that planets should align to bring us something spectacular. No bill should find its way into the mailbox of a birthday boy or girl, no matter what his age. No one celebrating her emergence from the womb should meet an ill fate or suffer so much as a stubbed toe. Birthday celebrants should leave their days untouched by a hateful middle finger, an unloved song, a disgruntled word, a blue plastic bag stuck in a tree, a line at the grocery store, or an extra pound.

Today, the sun is shining for me, on me. Though I much prefer to spend the day in quiet reflection, getting a massage, a facial, a foot rub, or some other touchy-feely healing ritual involving potions, today is a day like most others: I have a client’s ad to finish before tomorrow, classes to plan, a book to read, a soccer game to attend (and, consequently, cheering and screaming to do). But there is a moment for this kind of reflection, a little bit of writing, and I cherish it. There is also cake to eat and love to share.

Last night, I had a party for my husband, who turns fifty at the end of the month. I wanted it to be a surprise, and it was, until morning, when I griped endlessly about the rain (it was supposed to be an outdoor party) and fretted so much that I had to spill. Besides, Marty was then available to make the beer and ice run and help with some of the cleaning.

I don’t like parties. I don’t like attending them, and I especially don’t like throwing them—all that pressure to be perfect and entertaining. But this one took the cake (two of them, actually: white chocolate cheesecake and Silver Palate carrot cake). The food was provided, with thanks to my parents, by Café Zen, and set up thanks to my sister and brother-in-law.

I had invited about thirty-five people, and nearly all of them crammed into my tiny house last night, some with gifts. (If you count the life-size deer decoy, it was quite a haul.) Our rock star friend, Andy Bopp, of Myracle Brah semi-fame, played old favorites like “The Mighty Quinn” and “Happy Together,” with accompaniment by Bill Watson, drummer extraordinaire and head of the music department at the community colleges. It was Andy’s first living room concert, and he was a little nervous about it. But after the first song, he told us he was having the best time. It was obvious. We were, too—all of us.

Everywhere I turned, friends were engaged in amorous pursuits—kissing, smiling, gazing into each other’s eyes. And this was before the beer. Maybe it was the full moon, all the planets aligning in preparation for today.

I spent all of yesterday’s rainout baking and straightening and cleaning. But last night, the party threw itself. I wandered around with my beer and my new toy, singing “Surrender” loudly, smiling a lot, annoying the hell out of my good-natured friends with brief flashes of light.

It was just about the best way anyone could end one year and begin the next.

This morning, I arose to find photos in my honor from Flickr pals Max_xx and Hilary and several birthday greetings from real and virtual friends. One of them was especially touching: “Have a great day knowing that many people cherish you and that you are a perfectly good use of a life.” I wonder about that sometimes—my use of my life. But today I feel cherished and worthy of each breath I take.

As the day progresses, I will be touched a thousand times. And though I don’t earn that privilege every day, my friends and family make me work harder toward that end.

May all our birthdays be so warm and filled with kindness and love.



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Happy anniversary, Mitch and Parvene! Happy birthday, Mike Vogel, Steve Parke, Christine Crandall, Tom Scruggs, Diana Hume George, Paula Freed, Terry Reed, and all my other Libra homies.