In-Between Birthdays are Weird

Dearest Gentle Reader,

Today is my birthday and I already forgot three times before noon. Twice while talking to my parents on the phone, whose first words, when taking turns to speak with me, were “Happy Birthday!” Once in conversation with my brother, who FaceTimed specifically because it’s my birthday.

I do not have ridiculousy-early-onset dementia as far as I’m aware. (I am truly not very old!) It’s just that it’s a Monday and this is not a “milestone” birthday. It’s one of the in-betweens. If I were a poet, I’d write an ode to these days for which you can’t easily find napkins emblazoned with your age. But for some reason, today I’m feeling rather quiet about it. Just happy to be here, and hoping to at least double my tenure on earth in this body. At least!

It has been a “regular” day. One that I recognize as being particularly fantastic, in its own way. I ran along the beach, dropped my kids off at drama camp, talked to family, wrote and read, picked the kids up, took then to Target, took a photo of a Monster High mystery set my 7yo said she wanted for her birthday, made dino nuggets (1 min in the microwave), and am now writing this. The sun has been shining all day. It’s perfect, really.

Would I like to be wandering the streets of Paris, lounging by the Seine for a leisurely dinner of baguettes and cheese? You bet. But I am at home. Doing regular day stuff. And I’m totally fine with it, because, again, age has made me savor the small things and acknowledge my blessings. I have many. Too many to list here, but age is one of them. One with wrinkles. A wrinkly blessing.

I have not looked up when I will next have a weekend birthday (2028) when, ideally, nobody will be working and I can spend my entire day hiking or mountain biking, or traipsing across Italy with my favorite people, reverse aging physically due to lack of stress and responsibility.

But again, there is joy in in-betweeners, and it lies in recognizing good fortune and reveling in small delights. And saving cash. Because everyone is neurospicy when it comes to birthdays. The number matters. If it does not end in 0 or 5, wallets won’t open. Universities have long known this. Nobody will return for a 12th reunion. Give me 10, give me 20! 

One year ago, on such a day ending in 0, I was drinking wine with my besties (even though I don’t drink), and cycling through the California countryside during a weekend of fabulous, carefree fun. But one year past a biggie does not inspire the purchase of airplane tickets or shelling out for Santa Barbara’s wine tasting event of the year.

It’s Target trip with children territory. Make me dino nugs right now or I’ll die and it’ll be your fault! territory. Don’t be mean on my birthday! I replied to my husband. Oh, yeah, I forgot!  Just kidding, it was the kids. They forgot! Forgot after one of them spent the morning making me a card on which she wrote she’d love me more in the future, then drew a picture of a heart illustrating how much heartspace I get vs. her father, sister, and besties. My chunk was satisfactorily large enough, I suppose.

Someday, a week, a month from now, someone will ask how old I am, and I will not respond correctly. Because nothing has occurred to cement the +1 in my mind. It will remain that way until I hit an age ending in 5. This is no one’s fault. I do sincerely appreciate the birthday wishes. I would be devastated if no one remembered, even if only for a second. Even if only because social media told them so.

It’s just that it’s an in-betweener, on a Monday.