40

As I really, REALLY dislike being the center of attention, it can't shock you to know that I hate birthday parties. My own birthday parties, that is. I am happy to go to the parties of others and eat lots of cake and drink to their health and laugh at the gifts, all comfortably from the corner of the couch. I will even wear a hat if everyone else does. I have not celebrated my own birthday with a gala since I was 13 or so. That one was at some pizza parlor and I remember I got a poster of Donny Osmond (hated him) and a 45 of David Soul singing the wretched "Don't Give Up On Us, Baby". Yes, yes, each year I had a family birthday party with the grandparents and cake and presents and all, I am not without avarice, my loves, but not a formal, planning-required, streamers, party favors and games huzzah.

OK, of course I went out on my 21st birthday with a fistfull of close friends, including Charles, and this guy who none of us liked but who had lots of money and this enormous 1970s faded red convertible that sat, like, 53 people. He drove and bought most of the drinks. I figure he was the actual present, so the rest of us broke college students could order really expensive shit and drink heavily and not have to drive. This was before designated drivers and MADD and way before any of us realized we were not immortal. You know: Back when if you were caught drinking and driving and were underage with open beverage containers in the front seat, the cops would just make you "dump 'em" and tell you to drive straight home, because, hell, kids will be kids. Or so I've been told.

So anyway, I have been blissfully not celebrating my birthdays, except to maybe go to dinner with Charles and open some nice presents that I really did want, for ever-so-many years.

Until last year.

Last year, on my birthday, while driving home from work, Charles and I simultaneously turned to each other and said, "We probably should stop and get a cake, because, you know, Colin."

And so we did. We got a cake and had candles and sang and I opened presents in front of more than Charles. Because when you are a mom, sacrifices are required and, dammit, any 6-year-old knows what has to happen on a birthday.

And tonight, as it is, well, my birthday, we will do the same.

And how old are you, Diana?

Well, I would be 40, thank you very much. I am middle-aged. There is no denying it. I am actually a bit proud of it. Given what I do, it is a liability to be young. Looking young is another matter, though, and actually lends credence to your professional mystique. But being too young, no-no. (She must be good, look how young she looks!) I used to not exactly lie about my age, but would imply that I had a few more years under my belt, when in my late 20s/early 30s and starting to do all this for pay, rather than just the marvelous experience and stimulating pay of learning it. Hell, everyone expects a resident to look young. They are just out of school.

So I am 40. The new 30, according to Cosmo, unless it was Glamour. I dunno. One of those waiting room magazines.

40: I embrace you.

So, a happy stinkin' birthday toooooooo meeeeeeeeee!

(And now for the cake! No, no, make it bigger....bigger....a bit more.... so it includes that big dab of chocolate frosting. There you go. Fork, please.)