Celebrated

My birthday is in July, which means it has spent my whole life competing with fireworks and other people’s plans. For years I treated that as a reason to keep it small. Do not make a fuss. Do not be the one asking for a fuss.

I do not do that anymore.

I like beautiful gestures. I like a dress that takes a moment to get into. I like a table that somebody thought about in advance, and a room dim enough that everyone at it looks like the best version of themselves. I like being remembered — not surprised, not performed at. Remembered.

It took a long time to say that without softening it into a joke first.

Here is the thing I have learned about being celebrated: it is not really about the dinner. It is about whether someone decided, ahead of time, that you were worth the planning. You can feel that in a room instantly. It arrives before the food does.

And once you have felt the difference, it is very hard to accept the version where nobody bothered.

So — a dress. A table. Somebody who made a moment out of it.

That is the whole standard, and I am no longer embarrassed to hold it.