Why Bother with Birthdays

How we celebrate says something about character and values

Hello and thank you for showing up here! I know you likely have many things competing for your attention, so I hope the time you spend with this post is worthwhile. I’d love to know more about who reads this, so feel free to leave a comment introducing yourself and giving feedback on what you found relatable or interesting (or, God forbid, boring).

A week ago, I got invited to a woman’s 80th birthday party. My husband and I became friends with her and her husband when we moved here, in spite of our quarter-century age difference. They rented out a historic building in town from 1899, with a carved cherrywood bar and elk heads with antlers on the wall, and decorated it with a ’70s “Mama Mia” theme. Disco balls and party lights hung from the ceiling and ABBA songs played.

Bettie the birthday lady showed up in a shiny hot-pink jumpsuit, appliquéd with sparkly stars, that flared at the legs and wrists. She looked close to 80 because no artificial cosmetic treatments have stalled her natural aging—the skin on her neck hangs, and deep wrinkles line her forehead and eyes—yet she acted and moved as if she’s 50 as she danced and hugged guests. I’ve seen her ride horses, ski, and work out with a trainer at the local gym. That’s how I want to be, I thought to myself, aging naturally and full of vigor. You don’t need to look young to act and feel young.

Her husband toasted her while a screen next to him displayed photos from their decades of world travel. His voice caught with emotion as he proclaimed his love and admiration for her. I marveled at the tenderness of the scene, thinking, This is it—all we need. Love and companionship, friends and family, plus travel and adventure together. I hope my husband Morgan and I can throw a similar party when we’re their age.

Morgan and me acting silly at the party’s photo booth.

My 80th birthday is still 26 years away, which seems far off until I think back 26 years—when I was 28 and pregnant with my daughter—and remember it so well, as if I’m back on the first sofa we owned in our starter home watching The X-Files with Sadie, the big yellow lab we adopted as newlyweds. And yet, my two kids’ birth to adulting filled the years from then to now. Accordion-like, time and its memories expand and contract.

Me back in 1998 with my first baby on that first sofa.

Five days later, I celebrated my 54th birthday. I kept it low-key, reserving parties for milestone years. But Bettie’s bash, my year older, and the anniversary of my mom’s passing all made me consider aging and how we celebrate or deliberately downplay birthdays.

This time last year, my mother was in the process of dying as I lay by her side. Witnessing her end of life made me feel so old and blue, as if everything—myself included—were declining and vulnerable. By contrast, this year I feel … well, not younger exactly, but more energetic and positive. What changed?

Perhaps it has to do with the fact that on Thursday, I taught all day as a sub for high school English, then on Friday, I spent half the day running a hilly 26-mile route for training. It also has to do with a belated spring finally springing.

In the future, when I look back on life and remember good times—perhaps, like my mom, as a widower with a failing mind, in a wheelchair in assisted living—I might remember a week like this because of its mix of satisfying work, recreation, good health, and closeness with friends and loved ones. I will replay these days when I could knock off a solo marathon without much planning or effort, and when the sounds of a flowing river and birdsong, and the sights of new grass and snow-capped mountains, filled me with awe and gratitude upon stepping out the front door. I sense that weeks like this are precious.

Morgan asked me a week or so ago, “What do you want for your birthday?” In the past, I might have felt mildly annoyed, thinking he should get creative and come up with an idea on his own. Instead, I was glad he asked. I had an idea.

For the last several years, I’ve minimized my birthday and let my family fold it into Mother’s Day, which falls on or near it. My birthday felt like a bother, something I’d rather not think about, and scrolling and liking all the perfunctory birthday wishes on Facebook felt like a chore.

Then it hit me, I’m devaluing myself and denying aging by saying, “I don’t want to do anything for my birthday.” What if, instead, I got excited about it? What if I expressed my desire to be the focus of attention for a day? What if I replied honestly to inquiries about what I’d like to do or receive, instead of brushing them off by saying, “I don’t need anything”?

“I know!” I told Morgan. I went to our laundry room, which doubles as a storage room and potting shed, and pulled out a rectangular ceramic planter he had given me five or so years ago filled with succulents, which eventually died. “I’d like you to pick out some fresh succulents and replant this.”

He smiled, as if thinking, That’s it? “That’s a good idea, I can do that,” he said. “What else?”

“You know, I’ve always wanted hanging flower baskets.”

Flower baskets in outdoor public spaces remind me of the first road trip he and I took as newlyweds, to British Columbia and across the Canadian Rockies, where the overflowing colorful flower baskets hanging from lampposts in Victoria struck me as beautiful, fairy-tale-like bunches of color. Every summer, our town lines its main street with hanging baskets, along with boxed planters full of annual color spots. I’ve wanted flowers like that at home—in part, to pay homage to my mother and her talent for gardening and arranging flowers—but the high wind, extreme sun, hungry elk, and variable temperatures where we live at 9000-feet elevation make growing flowers or vegetables seriously challenging.

We made a plan for two flower baskets, and our brainstorming evolved into a day trip to Montrose that felt like a date. We got the golf clubs out of storage and hit balls at a driving range for the first time this year. We drove to a ranch and bought a truckload of hay bales to replenish our hay barn. And then we went to the nursery and collaborated on flower baskets along with color spots to fill the half-barrel planters at our entranceway.

Morgan gave me the gift of buying and installing the hardware, and hanging our new baskets, while I planted the annuals in the planters. Mostly, he gave me the gift of working on a project together—of being together.

One of the two new flower baskets hanging on either side of our entranceway.

And one of the two planters with new color spots.

On my actual birthday, Monday, I gave myself the gift of playing hooky while he worked. I decided to do only what I wanted to do that day—nothing on my to-do list, nothing that felt like a “should.” I started with a steep hike on a trail above town recently melted out. My legs felt tired from running over the weekend, so I let myself “just” hike, relaxing into the mind frame of our recent Camino de Santiago trip.

Then I treated myself to tacos at a new taco place and to reading at the library (at both places, I bumped into friends and got the bonus of socializing), then I got a pedicure. I picked up mail at the post office and smiled upon opening birthday cards from siblings and in-laws. I relished the “me-time.”

At day’s end, my brother and sister-in-law made me feel special by baking me a homemade carrot cake, buying me a gift certificate to a car wash (our vehicles are all filthy, thanks to mud season), making me homemade pizza dough, and singing “Happy Birthday.” Morgan gave me a card he made decorated with thumbnail images from all our years together.

There was nothing fancy or expensive about these gifts, and yet everything I received—from my husband over the weekend, to my siblings on my actual birthday—filled me with love and gratitude. I’ve often said, the best presents are experiences or are homemade. They are gifts of time and togetherness, the act of someone doing something thoughtful. I also increasingly value the seemingly old-fashioned act of picking out a card, signing and stamping it, and sticking it in a mailbox days in advance so it arrives in time.

I feel as if I’m giving myself permission to be happy and optimistic, and positive about my birthday, as though it’s countercultural to be cheerful about marking another year or to reveal I haven’t been too busy recently. My inbox is full of news and reminders of so many things wrong in the world, so many people struggling and stressed. I’ve got shit to deal with, too—obligations to fulfill, deadlines to meet, and anxieties involving my kids. I’m stressed about politics and conflict, locally and nationally. Last week, however, I let all that go and prioritized following my desires to do what felt good, and in the process, experienced calm, love, and balance.

The best gift-to-myself is yet to come. I started planning it around new year’s, as a combo birthday-Mother’s Day treat, and got Morgan’s blessing—another gift—to run off solo for three days without him. In mid-January, I took a deep breath and emailed some female runner friends, most of whom live on the West Coast, worried that none would respond or be interested. Are we really friends? Would they want to hear from me? The subject line read, “Picture yourself running across the Grand Canyon four months from now.”

I invited them on a Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim daylong run/hike adventure, totaling some 40 miles. “I’m determined to finally fulfill my desire to do a R2R2R crossing. I got on the website for South Rim hotels and booked a room before they all fill up … would you like to join me? I would like at least two other women to do it with me for safety.”

In the weeks that ensued, I pulled together a group and worked out the logistics. Then we discovered that the North Rim will be closed an extra month, due to late-season snow and trail damage, so I countered the disappointment by devising an alternate route (from the South Rim to the turnaround point at the closure, about two-thirds of the way across the full Rim-to-Rim route; then an east-west out-and-back spur, still totaling up to 40ish miles).

I’m meeting five of these women there Sunday, and we’re running the canyon all day Monday. I’m almost giddy with excitement along with nervousness about it. I’m a little worried about my ability and my bum knee (which I made worse yesterday by tripping, falling, and banging up). But ultimately, I have confidence I can do it. I’ll try.

(Side note: If you use Siri for dictation while texting and say “ultra,” chances are the word comes out as “I’ll try.” Because of this frequent dictation goof that I need to correct, I now think of “ultra” as “I’ll try,” which kind of works and inspires as a synonym.)

I’ll share the adventure in next week’s post. I’m mentioning it here as encouragement to plan something special and/or adventurous four to six months from now. If not, it won’t happen. I’m grateful the new-year’s-me looked ahead to the birthday-me and thought, “If not this year, then why not and when?”

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For your birthday, whenever it may be, I hope you take time to celebrate yourself and your age, and to do something for yourself. If someone special to you has a birthday coming up—and if you still have a mother to celebrate this Sunday—then send a card or make a phone call. Making time to connect and express appreciation is a priceless gift.

Me this week—no filter, no makeup, no wrinkle treatment. But I did get my hair straightened for the Mama Mia party, which was a treat (it’s back to curly now).