You Say It's Your..?

“Gloria, you’re just like your Uncle Johnny. Your birthday is a national holiday.”

I’ll be hearing that annual refrain from my Mom tomorrow because it is, in fact, my birthday!

Light the sparklers! Fling the confetti! Toss back a toast! Hell, I’d even urge you to take the day off from work if it wasn’t a Saturday.

I’m one of those people who think birthdays are a big deal and deserve to be fussed over. I never mind getting a year older (the way I’ve lived my life, I’m lucky to have made it this far) and believe they’re New Years, Christmas and Fourth of July rolled into one personal, gift-wrapped package.

How I celebrate my birthday has changed over the years. When I was in the single and early double digits, it was all about sugar overload and how many gifts I could amass. I particularly remember a tradition we had in grammar school, where your friends would make “corsages” out of tin foil-covered cardboard, bows and ribbons, covering them with Bazooka, Tootsie Rolls and other “penny” candy. Not only would the number of corsages you received reflect your popularity in the pecking order, you became the most sought-after person in class as your fellow students treated you like a walking, talking Pez dispenser.

I hit eighteen during those golden years when that was the legal drinking age. Sugar was replaced by shots and ear-bleeding hangovers for the next two decades or so, but I still had my cake and ate it, too, thanks to that universal workplace tradition known as the office party.

Truth be told, nobody gave a rat’s ass whose birthday it was, as long as we had an excuse to get away from our desks at three o’clock and fill our faces with cake. The only angst surrounding the celebration was the passing around of the birthday card. Suddenly, I became the most popular person on the premises and not because I was clothed in candy.

“Say, Glor. Think you can help me write something here?” miffed co-workers would ask while waving the card in my general direction. When I’d tell them that writing their own sentiment would be just fine, miffed turned to alarmed.

Inevitably, there’d always be one colleague who’d ask the question that never failed to leave me speechless. “Is there another way to say ‘Happy Birthday’?”

You will find no bigger iconoclast than yours truly, but some things are sacred and the words “Happy Birthday” are one of them. It’s simple, it says it and it shouldn’t be screwed around with. Add on “many happy returns” if you must, or “how old are you now?” if you’re suicidal, but there is no substitute in the vast language we call English for those two little words.

Last year, I had one of those milestone birthdays that stretched out to a three-day free-for-all. For a change, I’m keeping it on the down low tomorrow. The sparklers, confetti and other festive trappings can be shelved until next year.

A simple “Happy Birthday” will do it for me.