Why, yes! I DO feel older!

Think: “Birthdays.”  How many times on your special day have you been asked this ridiculous rhetorical question: “So! Do you feel any older?”

I got the same interrogation every year from age 5 until I’m sure I was 35. When I was a kid, I was certain it was a trick question. I’d be thinking to myself, “Compared to when? Yesterday?”  But, because it was usually asked by an adult, like an aunt who talked too close to my face and radiated an aura of Scotch and “Evening in Paris” eau de cologne, I usually replied politely, “Oh, ha, ha! Not really!”

Now that I’ve turned the corner on my birthday week, and this is one of those “significant” numbers coming up, I can truly say that I don’t feel old. Not on the whole anyway. My left hip feels old. So do my ankles and my right knee. I can’t stand from sitting without making grandma noises. My upper arms have a life of their own. And the less said about digestion the better. But, old? Nah. I like to think of myself as a youthful pre-senior — a long way from accepting a word like “spry” or inviting assisted living home representatives in for a sales talk and a cup of tea.

These days, the most oft-asked question concerning “special” birthdays is, “What will you do to celebrate?” Perhaps this is because arriving at this age is considered an accomplishment that should not go unrecognized, kind of like, “Excellent! Held off the Grim Reaper for another year!” And I’m down with that. It is cause for celebration just to be alive after all!

Decade markers in these upper numbers seem to indicate a cruise to a lot of people.  Oh, I do hope not. Not for me. Too many old people onboard.

Or perhaps someone is planning a surprise party. This also gives me the heebie-jeebies.

It might be memories of childhood parties that make me shiver. They were mean little affairs in the olden days before kids got organized to demand their parents put on extravaganzas with water slides, princess dresses and paint ball.

Consider the song. In our youth, after the first chorus of “Happy Birthday” we got serenaded with the “second verse”:

Happy Birthday to You,

You belong in a Zoo!

You look like a monkey!

And you smell like one too!

Nice.

And weren’t the games just so passive-aggressive? Pinning the Tail on the Donkey. Dropping a clothes pin into a milk bottle from your squeezed together knees. Passing a grapefruit tucked under your chin. Or an egg on a spoon. Marching around chairs to music battling for the last seat. All designed to inflict utter humiliation on the inept.

Then there was “A Pinch to Grow an Inch” which really began to hurt after everyone took their turn tweaking at your bare arm flesh. (Did this game survived metric conversion in Canada, I wonder? A pinch to grow a centimeter?)

 And who can forget “Birthday Bumps”? This was a sadistic ritual in which the assembled mob picked you up by your wrists and ankles and bumped your rear end on the floor to mark how many years old you were. Ouch! The 1950s and 60s were tough times, let me tell you!

The girl version of parties in our neighborhood were gatherings at our own homes with all our school friends invited — GIRLZ ONLY — except for the one boy who got invited to everyone’s parties. His name was Jimmy and, looking at my Grade Three class photo, I can see why. He was a real cutie; cherubic cheeks, neat, side-parted, slicked-down haircut, and little plaid bow tie. Not like the other boys who were just plain goofy. Each one of them would have guffawed when the birthday presents were passed around in a circle and they’d get to the inevitable packaged set of seven panties printed with the days of week on them that some Mom always picked out as the “perfect” gift. Jimmy didn’t laugh. Jimmy was a gentleman.

Hot dogs, cake, ice cream and soft drinks were always followed by some kid throwing up. For me, Orange Crush was a guaranteed throw up. I remember seeing a kid being rushed across a room at a party once when I was about eight, with the mom shouting, “She can’t even keep water down!” And I was thinking, “Wow! I didn’t even know you could barf water!” Good times.

I’m hoping Ken isn’t planning a surprise party for me this week, although it would be sweet if he is. Adults can mostly be counted on to keep the cake and ice cream down (mind you, it is flu season.) I’m just not sure it’s a good idea to surprise older persons, like me. And gifts are really not necessary. Especially boxed sets of day-of-the-week panties. Not in mixed company! Please!