Embracing the birthday

At precisely 6 p.m. on one of the days that end in Y, I was standing on my porch, with my kids excitedly hopping around me, raising a glass filled with a pink beverage in the direction of the family nextdoor.

I was toasting the sweet little choir that had gathered on their front porch to serenade me on what seemed, in these Corona-fide days, like my 127th birthday.

I had no idea it was a trap.

Three days earlier I had hidden my birth digits from the social network I have come to think of as Face Bonk, in an impulsive fit of self-preservation. I'm not sure why. Ordinarily, I look forward to the steady stream of well wishes from all 155 of my digitally-prodded friends.

Face Bonk silence was exactly what I needed - a salve for a future that is stuck on the present.

I imagined I was just quietly slinking through another day in Pandemicland, wearing soft pants and smiling in earnest at the few sparsely placed "Happy Birthdays" those who don't need reminding would deliver through the phone lines or written on greeting cards stamped with postage.

I had already graciously received presents foraged from the bottoms of drawers or the backs of closets. Thoughtful little do-dads I would be free to use up or to restock my own little mom and pop regifting shop. 

All that was left was to contemplate the gift cards forwarded from favorite stores, whose profit margins may be so so razor-thin it might slice open my heart to actually use them.

All of that changed at precisely 6:01 when a car pulled into the driveway and rolled past our house.

"Who's this now?" I asked my daughter in the voice of a new retiree who is wishing passerby off their lawn.

Suddenly I knew. And the knowledge went on like a lightbulb as one after another; a fresh vehicle joined the slow parade.

With no discernible pecking order, the masked drivers, who waved as they headed to our turnaround, didn't necessarily know each other. They had been drawn in from various circles just to wish me a happy day in semi-isolation.

Some of them got out of their cars to chat for a few minutes from a safe distance.

I hadn't been prepared, though, and had to dash into the house for a mask. And even that felt less awkward than I could have predicted.

Covering up my face and standing at a distance meant people couldn't see my normally steely demeanor turn soft.

And before a person could sing the Happy Birthday song twice, we would all wash our hands of a formal part of the celebration. The party rolled on home.

As I stood finishing my cocktail, I had the feeling that this was truly the best way to celebrate things we dread: with silliness and brevity.

I have never been more grateful to turn 127 years old and never been happier to be surprised.

Especially now that we don't have to hug.