For Whom the Koshi* Tolls

Today I turn 44. Technically, since I was born in Asia, I turned 44 yesterday as of 9 a.m. Which means that I celebrate two days in a row.

I have felt 44 for quite some time now as I habitually round up. The number 44 seems significant - I am not sure why. The only remote reason that comes to mind is the legendary Chinese beauty Xi Shi 西施 who allegedly passed at age 44 - although the credibility is in question as the source of this claim is a relatively well-known tongue twister: 西施死時四十四 (a legit tongue twister in Mandarin only, as far as I know).

I am by no means hinting that I should find myself anywhere near the league of the renowned beauty. I have been called morbid. And there is just something about those who die young - they never stop haunting us (although 44 is arguably not young). So there you have it.

Last year, one of my oldest friends wished me a happy birthday on FB (I'd set my birth date invisible by then). Then of course came an onslaught of birthday wishes. It was bittersweet. Obviously one keeps this date from public view for a reason. I am, for the most part, not an attention seeker.

This year, said friend wised up. Along with those who truly know me, she PM'd me her well wishes instead. I appreciate that.

But it is still semi-bittersweet. The few days prior to my birthday, I couldn't help but feel forgotten. I wasn't hearing a peep (it was not unusual to hear pre-mention of impending special occasions) from anyone. Not even birthday promos from restaurants to whose newsletters I subscribe (incidentally, if that doesn't scream lonely, I don't know what does.)

Not even from my dear husband, RJ.

Before we continue, this is not a passive-aggressive passage to berate the poor man.

A couple of times, I came close to discussing my antsiness with my work buddies. But I decided against it. This is not their burden. And it is very, very petty. After all, I purport not to care about birthdays anymore in my ripe old age.

When I repeated asked RJ during the week what we were doing on Saturday (as I do every week), his manner in responding left me convinced: he had forgotten.

But it is not possible! Not RJ. Is it possible?

And then I beat myself up for getting hung up on something so stupid and trivial. So, I do the next best thing: I plan our Saturday (RJ thinks I tend to shoot down his ideas; he's stopped making suggestions. Sigh...) And I decided to enjoy the day for what it was - and we did. I concluded that any day that RJ does the driving and I get to sit back and relax and watch tall redwood trees fly by my car window is a damned good day!

In fact, I was in effervescent spirits. I have always enjoyed RJ's company and our conversation, no matter what we are doing. At a spiritual bookstore in a ethereal setting, we happened upon a wind chime with such pretty song that we stopped to admire it.

"Would you like to have it for your birthday?" Asked RJ, seemingly out of nowhere.

"You remembered!" I cried, grinning widely.

An alarmed look hijacked his face. "Is it the 14th?" He asked gingerly.

I confirmed. And he was devastated. He apologized profusely. The look of shock and, dare I say, fear, cracked me up. I stood there, chuckling, while he stood there, facing me, guilt-ridden and adorable. With all sincerity I assured him that it was okay. And no, I didn't need the wind chime.

On the way home, RJ uttered he hadn't registered that we were "past the single-digit dates" on the calendar. With further clarification, I realized that, when he asked "Is it the 14th?" at the bookstore, he didn't mean "Is your birthday on the 14th?" He knew THAT. He thought it was the 14th THAT DAY. It wasn't.

Both of us were relieved he hadn't veritably forgotten my birthday. He'd forgotten what day it was. There is a difference.

He remembered. That's all I ask.


*koshi.fr