There are months which are overrun – with birthdays. Obviously most you ignore because it’s neither here nor there. Not least my own. If I told you how many of my birthdays are non events you’d marry me.
A few years ago I was invited to a 5oth. LSF – longest standing friend. Now longest standing friend (think sandpit) has no compunction to air his mind. One of his unique selling points. You can relax around him. He’ll tell you how it is. And that’s it. No bullshit. Which doesn’t make life comfortable. But then, who needs a comfortable life?
Where was I? Birthdays. So I didn’t catch the flight, missed that birthday and have not lived it down since. He still remembers. Which is his affair. And he keeps reminding me – which makes me cringe. There are only so many ways to tie yourself into knots (contortion by another name) before you run out of apologies.
The above making my argument that not to give a hoot about your birthday stand tall. I once spent a whole birthday (the one I’d looked forward to all my life and now look back on) in an empty carpark. Wondering. It happens. At least my mother couldn’t see me.
Anyway June and autumn are overrun in my life (with birthdays). And March. This minute I cannot for the life of me remember who was born on the 10th (today) or the 11th (tomorrow). It’s embarrassing. A cousin of mine is a November baby. He is dear to me. Yet, do I ever get it right? In short: No. It’s one of the reasons I ask my mother to stay alive. She is a walking diary. Call her and ask her when someone long dead got married circa I don’t know. She’ll tell you. Oh, how often my father and I laugh what we’ll do without her one day: We’ll be lost in a sea of 365 days. Years. And birthdays.
Yes, so one of my intentions in quest to tidy my life is to make proper notes.
On the other hand, and I don’t expect you to find this interesting though I do: Some people’s birthdays are firmly brandished in my mind. Particularly if they share the date, say, with Margaret Thatcher (13 Oct) or my beloved boss, Maggie, from a long time ago (14 Nov – same as Prince Charles). Not to mention all the others (which in the name of being discreet I shan’t mention) and those born on that dastardly of all days – 25th December.
My brother spoiled my 9th birthday. He was due on it but had the good grace to exit four days earlier. Still, in those days they kept you on the maternity ward for a good week. My poor father who didn’t have a clue did make an effort to replace my mother who makes birthdays special. Well, I’ll give him points for effort. I felt for him. It’s actually quite awful to watch someone make an effort but not getting it quite right. Reflect on that. Before you make your next effort in an effort to get it right.
Hugs and repair,