Happy Birthday to Me

It was my birthday over the weekend, along with the first day of fall. I have a touch of SAD (seasonal affective disorder), so when the days start getting shorter, I start feeling a little bit blue. And being in my "late 30s" now doesn't help, either.

Don't get me wrong: I love my birthday. Dozens of cards with warm words, calls from loved ones, presents... And really, I love all birthdays. A birthday is the one day where you can celebrate a person and no one bats an eye or feels strange about it. So I make it a point to send a card or make a phone call on birthdays, and I just revel in it when people recognize mine.

Still, with the fall weather and all, sometimes I just need a dose of happy, and all I have to do is remember birthdays past. Gary and I have made a tradition of trying all things new on our birthdays (new restaurants, new theaters, new experiences), which is definitely refreshing and rejuvenating. Many a joyful memory has come from the birthday celebrations that G has planned.

And the last few years at my former place of work, my team put together organization-wide birthday celebrations for me that involved food and gifts and cards and well wishes. Which I basked in, of course, and sorely missed this year.

But I have to admit, nothing will ever quite take the place of the complete, utter, enveloping ecstasy that was was my birthday when I lived at home. Ever since I was little and even through my rebellious teenage years, my mother made my birthday special. Mountains of beautifully wrapped presents on the table weeks beforehand. Letting me choose a restaurant for a fancy dinner. Parties and birthday cake and multiple renditions of the happy birthday song.

And oh, let's not forget, how could I ever forget, the Beatles singing "Birthday" at max volume in the morning as I woke up. I felt special and treasured and like the world existed just to make me feel like a million bucks. Thanks, Mom.