On this day in 1972 I was born. It was a Sunday, early afternoon I think. My parents were recent college graduates, just days shy of their second wedding anniversary. My Dad had come to the end of a summer job scrubbing toilets at a nearby campground. They had a small black dog adopted shortly after the discovery of my imminent arrival on the premise that a puppy would be good practice.

From the stories I’ve heard it is clear that my delivery was painful and complicated by my being face up in the birth canal. To this day I can’t stand to have my back to an exit.

Apart from the folks who were anxiously awaiting their first daughter, granddaughter and niece (having recently awaited the arrival of my own nephew and niece I have an idea of how exciting that is), my birth was quiet–not widely celebrated by the universe. I am not an international star but I do okay.

This year is a half decade. For whatever reason, halves are harder for me to get my head around than wholes. 25 was freakin’ weird. 30 didn’t phase me. 35 is, well, freakin’ weird too.

I had a very influential 8th grade teacher who used to predict that I’d become the first female president of the United States. As of this year, I am officially eligible to run for that office. She has passed on now so will therefore be spared the disappointment of my complete disinterest in the job.

That’s it. The last of the age-related rights. Not nearly as much fun as reaching legal drinking age, voting age, the age of porn and tobacco. The next age-associated milestone is retirement, or maybe AARP membership and a Golden Buckeye Card.

I have a lot going for me and I’m thankful for all of it. And I’m happy and healthy enough and getting wealthier and wiser by the day. But on this particular day it is kinda hard to blow the horns and put on the pointed birthday caps and make a big deal. It feels like the top of the hill. The start of the gradual descent.

But I will smile and tolerate this gigantic-ass birthday balloon that Julie brought me. And I’ll raise my glass tonight at happy hour with my friends and enjoy unnecessary but sweet gifts. Because though nobody believes it or can tolerate it, all I really want for my birthday is the same thing I want every day. To be surrounded by the people who love me.

This year that is made especially nice by the addition of Ellen, whose presence gives me a great big bright spot of hope that the gradual descent might actually be a hell of a lot of fun–even if it involves liver spots, graying hair, mamograms, supplements and osteoporosis.

It’s my birthday, hing me a hong. Just hing it quietly please.

Love to you all,
Amy