Sacrificing of virgins aside, my birthday
* is usually a low-key affair. My parents call and sing to me, my father's baritone limboing beneath my mother's mezzo-soprano. No presents change hands, though my inlaws often send money despite feeble protests. A couple of cards make it to the right address. My wife bakes something very good with frosting.
Early in our relationship I got it in my head to visit the doctor who had delivered me not long after
Blonde on Blonde** hit the record shops and the South Vietnamese army besieged Da Nang, possibly in retaliation. It was purest whim. I didn't call ahead. We went to the hospital and learned that he was still in the biz. He wasn't in so I left him a thank you note. Job done.
Traditionally we try to be somewhere different every year for both our birthdays. It's never been, say, on an ice floe in the northwest passage with candles held by polar bears, but that's OK. This year we stayed in a B&B built around the time Columbus was convincing Isabella and Ferdinand to sponsor him for a charity ride. For entertainment we went to the movies, which we never do anymore. Harrison Ford is getting on in years, too. At least the posters aren't totally divorced from reality; like having the royal engravers age the queen.
I've been thinking it might be more interesting to celebrate Conception Day. It's harder to pinpoint than one's birthday, which is a good thing. Adds myth and mystery. I imagine there may be resistance, given that most people refuse to entertain the concept of their parents having sex, beyond the notion that they must have. In some ways adoption seems more attractive.
Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, cake's done.
* it's not today
** don't google that with safesearch turned off
