Happy Birthday To Me

It's that time of year again. No, not the two turkey pig-out that is Thanksgiving/Christmas but the annual reminder that I have failed to accomplish even half my goals and I'm one year nearer to never doing so. Some people save this day for Jan 1st and make resolutions to do better next year. I do it on my birthday, without bothering with the "do better next year" bit.
I've always hated this day. Every year when I was small, my mother would host a party at our house. Normally I loved to have other kids over but there was something about the pressure of my birthday: dressing up, choosing games, that would have me hiding out on the stairs, usually crying.
It hasn't got better as I've gotten older. I no longer dress up and I never tell anyone that my birthday is approaching, but I still have to deal with the loved ones bearing cards and gifts. I'd really rather crawl into bed, put the covers over my head and not get up until the next day. The day after the birthday I am fine, a pleasant rational human being. On my birthday I am Satan with toothache. Anyone with any sense would avoid me. I would avoid me if I could.
So this year I set out to do just that. I left my long-suffering husband with the unopened cards and presents and took myself off to the gym for two hours, then, as the weather was phenomenal, I spent an hour on the beach alone and finally I went to the movies on my own. It was quite the best birthday I have had.
Now, as long as no one asks me how old I am, I should be fairly sane for another twelve months.