I had my 50th birthday last week.  I let that day pass by without much hoopla.  Orignially, I had decided that I would have a big party.  A cincuentañera kind of like a Mexican quniceañera but without going to church and having to listen to a priest go on and on about how I should live my life post-fifties. ¡Ay no! Besides that, I would have to sit through a mass. I am so glad that cincentañeras have not been implemented into Mexican American culture, but watch, Hallmark, specialty dress stores will catch on and ruin it for all you Mexicanas who will turn fifty in the future. After you are done paying for your daughter or daughter’s quinceañera, you will be stuck with the bill for a cincuentañera. And a fifty year old woman of Mexican descent is going to want the works on this day. Maybe even a new car because la comadre Cuca got one and her husband presented the vehicle with a huge red ribbon on top to her in front of all of the guests. Furthermore, if she likes diamonds, some kind of jewelry will be expected.  If she is from Sonora, then a couple more gold bangles to accompany the bunch she has on her arm already. Also, the party will be at the civic center with an open bar and the food is going to be catered unlike the potluck she had for her wedding.

Then I decided that I would have my birthday incognito, unannounced, and undetected.  It really wasen’t about turning fifty because I have been preparing myself  by repeating the following mantra: “It will be OK, it’s another day, you are as young as you feel, and as soon as you save enough money, you will get a boob job. “ One reason I had for not really wanting a party was that  I am still missing my mom.  She passed away in May and she used to make the biggest deal out of my birthday.  I realized that nobody except D. would do this nor did I expect them to do so. Besides this, I have always kind of made fun of people who go around telling everyone that it’s their birthday.  “It’s my birthday, it’s my birthday.”  Hijuela, I always thought that this made grown-ups sound like grade school kids. “Why all of this escándalo?”  ”Why such a big deal?”

My birthday is on the 4th of October.  As I mentioned, I had to go to work.  Nobody knew about it except my boss remembered at the end of the day while she was signing and dating forms. As the day went by, and things began to occur such as running into rude people, answering annoying phone calls, and other stuff that at the day’s end, that when you have shitty days like this, you just want to go home and straight to bed.  Not even bother say hi to the pets and wait for your spousal unit to get home. I know now that day would have been better if I had told some people that I was having a birthday.  At least birthday greetings and best wishes would have made the day better and it would have been easier to tolerate all the little things that added up to ruin  my day.  If it had been October 3rd or 5th, then I would have gone to bed, but  instead, on my way home, my favorite bakery was closed so I went to Wal-Mart and got one of those two-people chocolate cakes. Chocolate is my cure-all, it banishes all of my tristeza, erases all sad things, and dissapates all of the lousy events of the day.  It works better than beer or liquor, well sometimes.  I needed that chocolate cake.  It would provide me with the fast passage to bliss.  I got home, said hi to the four dogs and the cat, changed into some comfy clothes, put on some chanclas, and went to the cake.  I pulled off the plastic cover, got a knife to cut the cake, sliced it into four parts.  Each piece had 15 grams of fat, and I don’t give a hell how many calories.  I got a piece of cake, put it on a plate, got a fork and dug into the slice.  I made sure that I got cake and frosting.  I didn’t care about the candy conffeti on it; it’s not chocolate. I directed the cake glued onto the fork by chocolate frosting with candy confetti  into my mouth.  In the meantime, I closed my eyes in order to experience the pleasure and relief I would feel from chewing and swallowing the cake.  Immediately after that I would feel that shot of unmeasureable delight straight to my brain. I closed my lips around the fork, with my tongue I pressed the bit of cake to the roof of my mouth. The damned cake was dry! Expletives both in English and in Spanish flew out of my mouth like a swarm of angry wasps. But I ate the cake anyway, the frosting was fine.

So, now I am humbled by this experience and I swear to never think of people who announce their birthdays as immature.  I understand why people do this now.  Announcing a birthday, receiving birthday wishes, and gifts is a fine way to buffer a lousy work day. Birthdays make some of us very happy and they should because they mark the beginning of our existence.  As corny as the saying looks on baseball caps, t-shirts, coffee cups, but “Life is Good.” Aging in inevitable, we start to grow old right when we are born. Birthdays are meant to be celebrated because we should beging to think of ourselves as someone special and important.  Maybe then there would be less depressed people in this country and on this earth. Next year, I decided that I will start announcing my birthday approximately two weeks before the date.