Special to The Sun
The pressure is on! I can’t — not throughout the rest of my lifetime — live up to the flattering messages Hallmark printed on the birthday cards I’ve been bringing in from the mailbox all week ... not even if the zap of a magic wand allowed me to start this marvelous life over again. Certainly not the parts that friends and loved ones underlined.
I have to admit I’m especially fond of the balloon card that tells me I never seem to get older. Hallmark lied to the million or more of us who received that card, but who’s counting? On the off chance they’re right, last August’s Blepharoplasty might have been worth what it put me through.
To no one’s surprise, four of my birthday cards feature cute pups, one of which bears four precious dachshunds plus a fifth who professes that “four out of five Dachs agree ... you look great.” No more treats for Su-the-weenie-dog if she’s the dissenter
Various underlinings inside my birthday cards indicate that I’m a fighter, an encourager, stylish, wonderful, fashionable, fun and unique — the latter of which I prefer to mean one-of-a-kind rather than odd — and one friend promises that when I no longer remember my age, that she won’t remember either. Only one reference to my shoe fetish, and I’d like to thank the rest of you for not mentioning it. The PT took my high-heeled shoes away two years ago, and I’m still suffering separation anxiety.
The birthday cards I send are generally of the “We’re-in-this-together, ladies” sort of thing, sometimes snide but hilariously and universally applicable to the fairer sex of a certain age (if the PCs will let me say that). Not one of the cards I received this year is like that, and I’m wondering if I was the only one who appreciated the flippant ones I’ve sent over the years.
Mixed in with every year’s batch of birthday cards are the surgically sterile Many Happy Returns of the Day sort of thing that the personnel who work for my insurance agent, my CPA and my investment adviser pull up out of their computers on a yearly basis. In a bad year I value those too. Sometimes it’s just good to have your ability to breathe in and out validated.
But this wouldn’t be one of those years. I’ve been carded and gifted, flowered and fed, entertained to exhaustion and spoiled rotten to the point that I pout when FedEx pulls up to the curb and drops off a package at someone else’s door.
Well it’s over now, and it will be over until 2014. This year I’m telling whoever asks that I’m 18 and dyslexic. I intend to wear that deceit thin for the next six years, but in 2020 — if I can remember — I’ll have to start telling the truth.
MARJORIE ANDERSON is an Edmond resident.