Every year around early July, I start fantasizing about getting rid of my mailbox just so I won’t have to face those bellwethers of doom—birthday cards. They used to seem cheery, but now they’re dreary—those time bombs with front covers that say, “You’re having a birthday!”
Or stupid things like “Best wishes on your wonderful day!” Or really upsetting things like “Another year older?” The worst are those that announce the year you were born on the front cover, and inside there’s a list of everything that happened that year. (Those who were born in the year a war began feel really bad.)
Cards should not be mailed to anyone over the age of 30. Cards are adorable when you turn, let’s say, “Sweet 16” or 9. Then it’s a wonderful day. But now, it’s a slap in the face. Instead of a card, perhaps just a nice gift certificate for a visit to a really good podiatrist.
One of my sisters, (usually) a sensitive soul, sent me a card last year that said, “Birthdays are like messy computer workstations: It gets harder every year to keep your floppies off the desk.” Obviously, this greeting got hurled into the shredder within 30 seconds.
I remember that when I turned 40, my older sister sent me an application for AARP inside a card. She must have thought that was hilarious. I don't remember what the whole text of the card was (your memory starts going when you turn 40), but it talked about how things get better as they age—like cheese and wine and rose bushes. I think she was just jealous that I still had all my teeth.
With the Web, there’s a new fear. Three days after my “happy day” and thinking I was safe and that no other cards were coming to my mailbox (which I still have), I opened my e-mail to find a birthday greeting from my youngest sister, who chatted on about the years and seeds planted. I cried all morning.
Thinking back about past birthdays, I can clearly remember the times I couldn't wait to get another year older. Yippee! I thought, now I can shave my legs, get my driver’s license, land a job, and stay out past midnight.
And now, I would give my eye-teeth (those I have left) not to have to shave my legs, drive (I want a chauffeur), go to work, or stay out past midnight.
You know the exact year when you start to look decrepit because on your “special day” people say things like:
“You're only as old as you feel.”
“You know what they say, age brings wisdom.” (Or “tranquility”—it depends if the speaker ever lived in California.)
“Being young is not all it’s cracked up to be, you know.”
“Life begins at 40!” (Or 50 or 60—it depends whose talking, how nervy they are, and how much gray hair you've got.)
“Hey, you look really good!” (They mean for your age.)
“Time marches on.”
On last year’s birthday, I went to one of those luxury spas for a three-day personal oasis where I was pampered, pummeled, and spoiled. On my “happy day,” my personal trainer greeted me with “Happy Birthday, Ms. Faiola!” I think she’s still recovering from her black eye.
Joyce Faiola turns 40 (again) on July 24, so please forget it!
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in New England. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com
