This morning I received a frantic notice on Facebook that my old high school buddy Sandra, who is exactly my age, is having a birthday today and that I should send her well-wishes. While I certainly don't wish her ill, I'm choosing to ignore it. In fact, no matter who you are, if I personally didn't give birth to you I don't care about your birthday. That's something your own mother cares about, and if she's already dead I'm sorry for your loss and I guess you're out of luck; you'll have to console yourself with all those empty cries of "Happy Birthday!"

What exactly does that mean, anyway? That we should experience happiness on the one day of the year that puts us in touch with the fact that we are that much nearer our death? My own birthday creeps closer and I'm sick about it. I'll be leaving an age I have finally accepted and entering one that seems horrifyingly decrepit. 72? It can't be me, and yet it is. So no, it's not a day on which I will be "happy" no matter how many times I am instructed to be so.

... and her plastic surgeons.

The best anyone can do for me is to just not mention it. Simply look away and pretend you don't know. As for the cake and the candles and the gifts, I'll pass on those and try to make it through the day without noticing any of my cells withering or organs failing, all the while repeating my new mantra:
"Jane Fonda is 80, that's eight years older than me, Jane Fonda is 80, that's eight years older than me, Jane Fonda is 80, that's eight years older than me,  Jane Fonda is 80........"