It has been brought to my attention by that nagging woman who lives in the far corner of my head that I’ve been remiss in thanking all and sundry for their happy birthday wishes. I wish I could tell you that I have been jet-setting all over wherever, but no, I’ve just been hiding out, which is what I do when I want time to pass quickly.
How did I get to be someone who gets depressed over her birthday? I used to be so smugly superior when others would wail over the annual event. Birthdays are things to be celebrated. Joyous occasions. Times to eat cake. Open presents. Count life’s blessings.
Yeah, right. Until you get to the point where you see fewer in front of you than behind you. Then, suddenly, they’re a reminder of how speedy life goes by–and how that is so not in your control.
You should know, though, that each birthday wish was a little puff of light in my life on the 3rd. And then on the 5th, I woke up feeling as if I had recovered from some major illness, a fever or something, and now I am back to being cheerful, forward-looking, but “totally forgetful about her manners” me.
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