Today’s anniversary highlights an unusual perspective: not celebrating my birthday

It’s the 53rd anniversary of the day I moved to San Francisco

When I was a kid, I always dreaded the Sunday closest to my birthday, watching aunts, uncles, and cousins showing up, with somebody carrying the telltale pink bakery box that I dreaded to see.

Eventually, everyone was going to be singing that stupid song to me, while I stood there, embarrased, not wanting to be the focus of their attention.

As a kid, I didn’t think I had the power or the right to absent myself from the festivities. Since I became an adult, I have learned otherwise and I have used my power to do so.

Over the years, I have had multiple people try to convince me of their way of thinking: “We want to celebrate you.” “We’re happy you were born, so don’t deny us the pleasure of sharing that with you.”

I tell them that they may celebrate me whenever they want to.

Despite the fact that I am 74 and continue to have decent reasoning skills, it all still does not make sense to me. At the basis of it is this thought: I didn’t do anything to make that happen. By that, I mean that I am not aware of any conscious effort that I made to get anything done, to make any kind of accomplishment such as being born.

I have one friend who got all metaphysical and New-Agey with me about how I chose to be born. Sorry, but I am…