Happy Freakin' Birthday

Very soon, most likely by the time you read this, I will—against my better judgment—have turned 52. That's not such a bad thing, really, especially when you consider the alternative. But, historically, birthdays have not exactly been kind to me.

Now, I'm not implying that anyone has the right to expect their birthday to be the highpoint of their year, but I wouldn't mind if it wasn't the annual nadir. During my childhood, my birthday generally coincided with the storm of the decade, or was the day I came down with a near-fatal dose of Bulgarian Measles or Nepalese flu. My 21st birthday—something every American looks forward to as a watershed event—was so gut-wrenchingly nightmarish it is still keeping my therapist's children in Reeboks. My 30th and 40th birthdays were at least unappalling enough that I can't remember a thing about them (or, perhaps, I just blacked them out), and the only event of note to take place on my 50th was the morning phone call telling us my wife's grandfather had died. Not exactly something to inspire an outpouring of mirth.

As an adult, I really don't care about my birthday; I just want it to go by unnoticed. True, it's nice to get a few cards or, as I did last year, an E-mail from my son telling me to call him so he could wish me a happy birthday on my (international) dime. But aside from those niceties, it's best to ignore it. In Britain, however, this is not allowed.

Back in the States, I could happily go to the office on my birthday and no one would take a blind bit of notice. In fact, no one would even know. And if a particularly close friend happened to remember, it would probably only result in a drink at TGI Friday's after work, with him paying. Here, I'm expected to provide cakes, candies and assorted treats for everyone in my office. It's required by an act of Parliament (well, that's what I was told) so no one is allowed to let their special day slip by without providing a party for everyone whose birthday it isn't.

This means I have to give my birthday a lot more though than I am used to. I've been thinking about it for weeks: what sort of treats to provide, what sort of quantity (and quality), when I'm going to buy it and how I plan to get it all there. Since I ride the bus, dragging in 5 carrier bags of cakes, pastries and assorted chocolates is no easy feat. It's also a lot to ask of a person who, truth be told, they barely speak to for the other 364 days of the year.

I do not reveal these things lightly; I put a lot more though than usual into this chronicle for a number of reasons: first, I thought I wasn't funny enough; secondly, I knew it would date quickly, forcing me to write another update within the week, and, thirdly, I was afraid it might jinx an already jinxed day, making it that much worse. But this morning, I received a letter informing me that a long-awaited hospital appointment has been scheduled for, yep, you guessed it, my birthday.

So now, in addition to schlepping all the materials for an office party around with me, I also have to spend the better part of the morning in the loving arms of the NHS. Realizing it couldn't possibly get any worse, I decided to write the article. Besides, after spending a few hours in the local hospital, I'm certain to come away with something new to write about.