It’s my birthday and damn it, I’m proud

Let the revels begin (Image via Wikipedia)

A number of people wished me a happy birthday on Tuesday, which was an odd coincidence as Tuesday happened to be the anniversary of the day I was born.

I’ve always felt proud of that accomplishment. Perhaps it’s immodest of me but when you think about how many people have never achieved it, I think I deserve some credit. Whatever else you may say of me, I did get born and I’ve lived with the consequences ever since.

Of course my birth happened a very long time ago, so long ago that I can’t even remember it. But it must have been very special because the authorities issued a certificate commemorating the event.

My late mother used to claim that she was somehow involved but she never went into detail so I suspected that she was probably just trying to grab a little of the glory for herself.

“You’ve got your own birthday,” I would remonstrate. “Don’t try to horn in on mine.”

Now that she’s gone, I sometimes wish I hadn’t beaten and kicked her so much. She was a pretty good sport about it, though.

I’m grateful for the birthday greetings I’ve received. Scientific studies show that saying or writing “happy birthday” does in fact make the recipient happier.

On the downside, I can’t help thinking that every passing minute brings me closer to the end of my birthday. When the time comes that it’s no longer my birthday, then what? Will I have to wait another year to be happy again?

Also I was surprised and not a little disappointed to find no mention of my birthday when I scanned The New York Times and Google News on Tuesday.

Now I understand why so many people don’t trust the media.

The truly weird thing is that no one ever wishes anyone a happy deathday. I mean isn’t that when you really need to be cheered up?