Today is the anniversaire (birthday) of yet another of my August birthday friends. For some reason, I seem drawn to people born this month (and they to me, I hope). Other “birthday months” that work for me in terms of friendships are February, November, and May; a greater number of friends have birthdays during those months. My birthday is in October, and a handful of friends’ birthdays are, too.
I love birthdays–whevever they fall–and all sorts of other important dates, especially wedding anniversaries, and not just my own. My husband was born in February and we got married in June; it’s been nice to alternate celebrating one of our birthdays and our anniversary, every 4 months. When I was growing up, I always felt that my parents’ anniversary was more important than anyone’s birthday in the family; after all, it’s when
we they became a family. If not more significant than a birthday, it was at least (way) more romantic. It meant they weren’t just alive for another year, but were together another year…and they continued to be, for 58 years, when my father passed away.
I grew up the middle child in my family, and tried to stay under the radar as much as possible. It wasn’t all that difficult. Not being noticed equaled having more autonomy and independence. But being forgotten about can have its downside.
It’s the paradox of a writer’s life, I guess: you need to want to work alone (I do), and not mind being alone (I don’t)–but you need to connect with others, too (I try). When I’m under the radar, I can get a lot done, but it’s a solitary endeavor–and sometimes it’s easy to feel a bit malheureuse.
La solution? For me, it’s to notice others, to connect, and to celebrate.