I don’t like to make a big deal out of my birthday. I kind of agree with the brilliant Patton Oswalt, that you really only get about twenty or so legitimate birthday parties in your life, mostly when you’re a kid, and also the big decade markers. But when you turn 42? Who cares? I don’t, really. I certainly don’t want to have a party, and I don’t care if people remember.
Well, there is one person I kind of expect to remember my birthday, but she’d never forget.
Ironically, in this age of social network sites and their attendant birthday reminders, I had more well-wishers than ever. It seemed like I must have gotten a hundred greetings via Facebook, Plaxo, text messages, e-mails, and of course this blog. All of which I appreciated.
But guess who forgot? That’s right. Xy.
When it became obvious that she’d forgotten, I did not remind her. I figured if she made it ’til midnight without remembering that I’d be able to milk this for weeks. Unfortunately she ran into a friend of a friend who just so happens to have the same birthday as me, and that jogged her memory.
In Xy’s defense she was feeling poorly, getting over the tail end of the same cold I just had.
Still I’m getting some mileage out of it. Xy let me sleep in, and she’s making me breakfast now. Happy belated!