Many Happy Returns
Birthdays suck.
It's a truth universally acknowledged.
I blame childhood, and the expectations that are unfairly heaped upon the day. Even as an adult, I cannot seem to shake them. Birthdays must be wonderful. Therefore, they never measure up.
Have a run of really bad sleep with abdominal pain? The night before your birthday, it will be even worse. But, don't take it personally; it's just the way these things go.
Have a beautiful afternoon with time in which to accomplish badly-needed garden tasks? You'll spend it crashed on the couch, uncomfortable and weary and depressed. But, don't take it personally; at least you slept some, and the dream was pleasant (even if awaking from it to reality was rude.)
Pour out your inner thoughts about deep topics in an email? You'll get a one-sentence response. But, don't take it personally, though it feels like a punch in the (already irritated) gut (and resolve - yet again - to stop doing stupid crap like that.)
BUT. You'll get your annual text from the friend you've lost touch with, who shares your birthday (along with Johnny Depp; you have a tradition of sharing memes of him with each other on this day.) It'll be a lovely surprise.
AND. Your son will find you groggily trying to force yourself up off of the couch, and will come and sit beside you and hug you and scratch your back to show you he cares. (And he'll make dinner and desert, too.)
AND. Your mom will call.
And your sister will text.
And your farmer friend will set aside some eggs in her farm store with your name on them - calling first with a question, because she cares and is worried about cross-contamination - so you can force yourself out of your house to go do something vaguely productive and non-selfish, and pick them up for an angel food cake for your family, so they can celebrate your birthday.
Which is what I should go do now.
(and, the beautiful thing about birthdays is...at some point, they end.)
-M