Happy Birthday, Whatever That Means

Today is the birthday of a dear friend of mine who I met when I was about 12 or so, I can't remember. We were pals all through junior and senior high, then lost touch, then found each other on Facebook many years later and renewed our special relationship. I certainly wish her a "happy birthday," as is the custom. But what does that even mean?

My mother always said that she should be the one celebrated on my birthday since she went through nine months of hard labor and then many hours of really hard labor on that particular day. I agreed with her and so always gave her a small gift on my birthday, despite feeling entitled to all the big gifts and parties she piled on me, while nobody else congratulated her.

As for being the birthday girl, like my friend Melva is today, I'm not sure what saying "Happy Birthday" means. I wish for her to be happy every day, not just on the day she was born a million years ago, oops, not really, more like 79 -- which in our society is akin to a million years. (She looks 20 years younger, really.)

And what's with the gifts? Buy me something any day the spirit moves you, I always tell my husband and son. Send me flowers on a random Tuesday. Show your love all year long, not just on the day I escaped the abortionists and made it through the birth canal alive. I know, I know -- I'm wringing the joy out of the celebration. But still, think about it: What's so special about getting a year older, besides not dying yet? Why must we focus on our age so much? Are we trees? Historic buildings? Fighter jets?

One of my favorite questions: How would you act/feel if you didn't know your own age? My personal answer: A heckuva lot better! I'm only two months behind my friend, and I gotta say turning 79 sounds pretty sucky to me, although God, if you are reading this, I definitely want to, so don't try any funny business.