It will be official at 5.20 in the morning. The celebration will be over by 5.23 a.m. when I go back to bed after a trip to the loo, a drink of water and a couple of pain meds. I will acknowledge it when I smack the alarm to shut it off, and I’ll officially start my 58th year on this earth. Asleep.
I really didn’t want anyone to acknowledge the day, but it appears I already have no choice. And you know what?
It really doesn’t matter. People are hurt if you don’t let them glut your email inbox with birthday greetings or stuff your post office box with cards or fill your house with balloons and cut flowers or send you a cookie bouquet even though they know you have Celiac Disease. It’s not your time to just “be”. It’s their time to be acknowledged, even if they don’t talk to you all year, for remembering Your Great Day.
So you do what you, raised on Emily Post, are expected to do. It takes a couple of hours to write/send the thank yous, and you are polite and don’t swear at people because they remembered.
Then you water the flowers, take the balloons to the library and give the cookies to the postmaster. And when it’s all said and done, you aren’t surprised when you realise there was not one book.
And only one person ever looks at your wish list.