The 31st May is Clint Eastwood’s Birthday.
And Brooke Shields,
Prince Rainier of Monaco
and a few other peeps here and there.
Oh, and it’s mine.
But since my 40th Birthday, exactly five years ago, I no longer celebrate or even recognise it as a special day. I don’t answer the phone when it rings, I don’t check my Facebook until the very end of the day to thank any Birthday Wishes, I don’t accept any invitations to dinner or lunch, and generally I just ignore the day altogether.
This year I received just one card in the mail – from my ex-BFF’s Mum (not my own Mum).
My girlfriend Sally also dropped a card off to my place, on her way home from church. I took some two day-old soup to her place a couple of hours later and we watched the footy and crocheted in front of the fire. Max LOVES going to Sally’s house. He knows we’re heading there as soon as I turn off the highway and stands with his front paws on the dashboard.
And now it’s over, and I don’t have to feel the hurt and the reality of how alone I am – as polarised by a birthday – for another twelve months.
By which time,
I am planning on not living in the Purple House any more.