Tomorrow is my 74th birthday. These days, my earliest birthday memory is vague, but it involved competing birthday parties for me and a classmate when we were either five or six years old. Naturally, the real competition was between our mothers, who jousted over which party would take place earlier on Saturday afternoon. I don’t recall having strong personal opinions about it. After all, regardless of the order, I stood to get two servings of birthday cake with ice cream!
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I have always preferred butter cream to whipped cream frosting. My favorite birthday cake remains a yellow layer cake with chocolate icing and filling, topped with squiggles.
For many years, I took my bakery business to a neighborhood bakery where they specialized in such creations. After several decades spent making cakes to order and other baked delights, the owners grew old and decided to close their shop. By then, the place had earned such esteem that its loyal customers stripped it bare for its memorabilia. Someone even purchased the large neon sign that had been affixed to the building’s exterior. For me, this process conjured images of the vulture crones, who looted the possessions of dead people in the old Anthony Quinn film, Zorba the Greek.
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In the days leading up to this year’s birthday, I’ve had a mild case of the birthday blues, which, my research shows, is a real thing. I would add that this is not the first time.
So-called experts propose various reasons for my negative reaction to what ought to be a celebratory occasion, for example, growing old. Certainly, in my case, it’s not fear of getting old, heck, I’m already old. And, in my book, being old beats the alternative of being dead. Furthermore, despite turning seventy-four, my experiences with the birthday blues greatly predate my dotage. Other plausible causes, including diagnosed depression, or other mental illness, even general anxiety, won’t hold. I have achieved a few things in my lifetime, so check! At the same time, like everyone else, I have my fair share of mistakes and regrets on the ledger, but nothing so egregious that it would explain my annual birthday funk. On the other side of things, I’m also not under pressure to love my birthday.
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Supposedly, “[y]our birthday is your own special day. It’s the one time of year that’s just about you.” See Why Are Birthdays Important? (25 Reasons) by Jessa Claire found at https://upjourney.com/why-are-birthdays-important (updated March 27, 2024). Not for me. Perhaps that’s my problem.
My mother loved to regale how she managed to squeeze me out just before the clock struck the witching hour on her birthday. As I reflect, the exact timing of my birth made no practical difference because, for as long as she lived, our birthdays were to be inextricably linked. I still wonder where she got the “on our birthday” cards I received from her each year.
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So, to my mother and anyone else who might be celebrating a birthday tomorrow:
They say it’s your birthday.
Well, it’s my birthday too, yeah.
They say it’s your birthday.
We’re gonna have a good time.
I’m glad it’s your birthday.
Happy birthday to you.
“Birthday” by Lennon and McCartney
