Last week, I celebrated my birthday. Actually, I started celebrating the week before, enjoying a restaurant dinner with my birthday twin (we share birth dates, not birth mothers) and a chocolate Grand Marnier cake to top off my family’s Thanksgiving meal.

I got together with several friends at Nicki’s on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. We nibbled from an abundant buffet and emptied a modest amount of Prosecco.

I made a wish as I blew out candles over a coconut cake (one of my favorite sweets).

I unwrapped presents and we ogled over the cards we passed around.

I entertained the thought that, at sixty-five, I should be past getting excited over another birthday, but I confess I love having a small fuss made over me. I relish the thought of people getting together because of ME.

There are things I am proud of and goals I still hope to accomplish, but I can’t think of anything that makes me as happy as being a valued friend and receiving the good wishes of people I love.

Just to be sure I didn’t let the love fest go to my head, I guess, Nicki sent me home with a souvenir balloon printed with HAPPY FUCKING BIRTHDAY.

It’s still inflated, a week later, and continues to make me smile.

When you turn sixty-five, the cards and birthday greetings tend to paint aging in a strange light.

Several people have congratulated me for getting on Medicare. I got another card which poked fun at senior moments, lapses in short-term memory, by starting off  “Happy — Oh crap. I forgot what I wanted to wish you.”

On its front, my favorite greeting card read “We’re not getting older,  we’re getting better,” then opened to the self-conscious and delightfully human refrain, ”Okay, now you say that to me.”

I had to laugh at the truth behind this stripped down sentiment. Years earlier, I might have thought more about being clever. Now, I don’t know if I would even write a snarky YELP review.

I believe that part of everyone’s purpose on earth is to build each other up.

I used to quip about getting older by saying “Cut me in the middle and count the rings,” as if I was a tree and each year represented a dubious accomplishment. But in so many ways, with each passing year, I have become happier, more aware of what I’m genuinely grateful for.

I worry less. I accept myself more. I don’t care about whether my frock is fashionable, only whether it’s machine washable. I don’t measure myself in comparison to what others have. I mostly just give attention to how what I have makes me feel.

As I stared at my Happy Fucking Birthday balloon, I thought about the expression, “Many happy returns.”

I’ve assumed this expression referred to the time it takes for the earth to revolve around the sun, one year, and conveyed that this fact, a completed revolution, was worth celebrating.

The sun doesn’t care about the planets or stars in its orbit. The planets don’t care about its movement or even about time. A year is totally insignificant in their lives.

But I am aware of things in my world that I appreciate, that make me happy to be on this trip, for as long or short as it is.

Being human is about coming to terms with being nothing special but understanding that your experience is all about YOU!  It’s great to have people you love with you on this journey.

Wanting to celebrate just being loving and learning as any cycle completes itself is no small thing.