I can tell you that today is only the third time in my life that it has rained on the 31st May . . . my birthday. When I mention this to people, they are flummoxed. How on earth can I remember that?
Well, until 2 years ago, my 40th birthday, I LOVED my birthday. I didn’t need ‘special’ treatment (I’m not a princess for a day – thank you). No fanfare. However, I did LOVE my birthday.
I would hold it above all other days of the year.
In recent years I would buy myself a bottle of Pol Roger (real champagne). I would buy myself prawns or crayfish or beef Wellington. I would get a movie. Snuggle up with my mutts (or my man, if I had one).
In years previous to this, I would organise a party. I would invite work mates, friends, sporting teammates. Having spent a decade in the bush, I would very rarely have old friends or relatives come. Even if I invited them, it was always a ‘bit far’. I would play my favourite dance music, dress up and ALWAYS have a pavlova. Covered in cream and fresh strawberries. OMG – my mouth is watering now!
The whole point of my birthday was to enjoy everything I had, and look forward to all that I wished for. It was a day full of hope and I grabbed all the positives that came up in the day. Sometimes I even ordered flowers to be delivered to my workplace. I LOVED my birthday.
And then my 40th birthday happened.
And now? Now I don’t even acknowledge my birthday. It’s not even ‘just another day’. It’s lower even than that.
But I do cherish every “Happy Birthday” that I received today. I appreciate the two cards and one present I was given. I am grateful for all the FB messages I was sent today, as well.
But unfortunately, I care less about my birthday than all those well wishers.
Thank you, though.
It’s just the 31st May, after all.