I’m resisting the urge to be self-deprecating To lament about how much better I can be At being me.
I’m holding back from giving the same spiel I give everyone On every one of my birthdays How I feel the ayin of my life more than the yesh (always nothing over something) So please excuse my almost-constant state of existential angst.
You don’t want to hear me talk about how 37 is almost 40, and how the you-know-what can I be almost 40 when I remember 18 like yesterday?
And then suddenly, my face crumbling, realizing I’m no longer 18. Or 23. Or even 30.
No, you don’t want to witness that.
(The curse of nostalgia.)
I won’t share my birthday wishes Or resolutions To be nicer to my kids And show more love to my husband And be less critical And more present And feel more free From my cage.
That I’ll lose weight and have a pretty face of make-up and do real good at my job and Never fail.
And I won’t pretend that’ll happen, either.
When I was younger, I made everyone memorize my birthday. March 18th. Chaf Adar. March 18th. Chaf Adar. March 18th. Chaf Adar.
As if them committing this date to mind proved that I was likable.
So, as much as I will want to
I’ll try not to Somehow, so masterfully (as always) Deflect the attention When you say Happy Birthday To me.
Because as much as I want to
And try to Hide. And disappear. And apologize my life away.