Recently, I received a telephone call from a former classmate from my high school concerning the fast-approaching reunion of my graduating class. "Paul" is a stay-at-home dad who volunteered to assemble a scrapbook chronicling bits and pieces of the individual lives of the Class of 1985. "So, what was your favorite birthday since graduating high school? I mean, that's if you still celebrate birthdays…"
"Not celebrate my birthday?!?" I screeched through the phone lines with the same tone of incredulity and indignation that one imagines the Pope would use to respond to someone who inquired if the Bishop of Rome intended to "skip Mass" on Easter Sunday. As Lewis Carroll penned, "There are three hundred and sixty-four days when you might get un-birthday presents, and only one for birthday presents, you know." My birthday, in my mind, is sacrosanct, and I freely admit that I have often stated over the years that August is not entirely devoid of any holiday, as my birthday is contained in same! My passion for celebrating birthdays is not limited to just my own. I possess a history of bringing in birthday cakes for co-workers, hosting lavish (well, as "lavish" as one can manage on a shoestring budget!) birthday bashes for friends and relatives, and my cats' respective "birthdays" are festive occasions as well (admittedly, "catnip cake" may not be everyone's idea of a fancy pastry, but Linus, Schroeder and my other cats (except Holly) consume it with great gusto (admittedly, they are not as wildly enthusiastic concerning donning paper birthday hats).