Early last week I realized that I am not – and maybe never have been – wild about my birthday. Anyone whose natal anniversary comes this close to a new school year can probably relate. I didn’t dislike school; it was just hard to fit in, and once my bones crashed the party, being a teenager got significantly harder. We also moved around a lot, so I was often the new kid in class ... but this post isn’t about school. It’s about accepting a truth formed over sixty-two years and only acknowledged in my sixty-third.
I
have patchwork memories of birthdays past. Some were good, a few were great,
and many were anticipated with more anxiety than excitement. A couple were so
crushing that I recall them in more precise detail than I do the most-excellent
ones outnumbering them. When contemplating the inevitable occasion a week ago, I
felt like my birthday has historically been more stress than celebration, and I
wanted to forget the whole thing forevermore.
Then
the modem at home crapped out and I had to work at the office for five days
straight. I was already compromised by a week of bad technology karma, so
losing the wifi was a grandiose WTF?
Thinking of my birthday on top of that just made me crabbier. And I mean crabbier.
I can’t
tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that the people I work with are amused by my
moods. They certainly aren’t daunted, although they are quick to respect when I
answer “How are you, Ru?” with a warning to approach with caution. Last Monday
I ranted freely about my wifi woes, to which none of them were genuinely
sympathetic, as apparently a whole week of my on-site presence is a perceived win
(should have been my first hint).
When
I arrived at the office on Tuesday, a bunch of balloons was tangled in the tree
outside my window. Our office is next door to a hotel and three different, um,
drinking establishments, so, obviously the balloons had somehow got loose from
their original owner the previous night ... but for them to end up outside my window when I’m flanked by glass on
either side seemed like a pre-birthday sign from the Universe. I definitely
felt the love, which was rather humbling considering my attitude.
Throughout
the week, my peeps made frequent reference to my approaching happy day, which I
was actually dreading though it would have been mean to say so. And on the last
workday before my birthday, I walked into a fully decorated office, down to the
tiny party hats made for each of my critters. My morning chai was bought for
me, our executive director brought me flowers, everyone on the headquarters
roster had signed a birthday card, and once our office manager arrived (coming
in specially on a vacation day), she brought a black forest cake and led the team
in a round of “Happy Birthday to Ru”. We partied and laughed and hugged and got
a little
work done ahead of my birthday long weekend.
How
could anyone stay miserable in the face of so much love? Not me, that’s for
sure. And on the home front, the technician from Rogering Shaw got us back
online with a new modem to replace the dud they’d sent us a week earlier (but
that’s another post). By the end of
the week, my treed balloons were wimpy and shrivelled ... and so was I.
My
attitude had to change after all that. And it did. I’d been so fraught with
anxiety and, yes, feeling unworthy, that I almost denied myself the joy of
being loved by people I love. They might not be family, yet they mean as much
to me as any blood relation – and I mean as much to them. Today (the 2nd),
I’ve been inundated with texts and emails, and Ter has been her usual
over-the-top generous self. I’d say I’m luckier than I deserve, but that might
send the wrong message to a Universe that exists to give back what I put out.
As I
wrote in my note to the HQ folks who signed my card, thanks to them, I’ve
decided my birthday is okay after all. The only ones I’ll dislike now are the
ones that make me older.
Happy birthday, Ru. You are so very loved.
