The Coffee Table

Happy Birthday to Me!

Last week I celebrated my birthday. Well, celebrate might not be an accurate verb in this instance. When my husband was alive, the entirety of Labor Day weekend belonged to me, because even if my birthday was not actually on Labor Day, it was very close. My sweetie elongated my birthday every year, usually including a music jam where everybody in attendance sang to me.

But he has passed on, and my birthday ceases to be much to celebrate. In fact, the whole Labor Day weekend can feel lonely now.  

I was particularly stressed on Labor Day—the day before my birthday this year. I hadn’t heard from my Louisiana friend, Susan, in a long time. I’d tried emailing and texting but got no response. She always sends a snail mail greeting for my birthday—but not this year. And it occurred to me that we no longer have friends in common who would call me if she died.  

I sank into a depression. The thought of never talking to her again hit me like a brick. I even cried, certain she had passed away.  

And then she texted. Repeatedly. Happy Birthday to Me! 

Early in the morning on the actual anniversary of my birth, I got a Happy Birthday email from a friend in Green Forest.  I didn’t even know she knew it was my birthday, so that made my day.

I got emails from my bank and my eye doctor. And then one from my son that said, “Happy Day after Labor Day. Now get back to work.” Made me laugh. 

I got to Face Time with my Australian daughter. And my local daughter, a busy schoolteacher, made a plan to take me out as soon as our schedules coincide.

But physically I was alone, running a lot of errands so I wouldn’t be home feeling neglected—which would be a misguided feeling, clearly. (See above.) There was no cake—but I’m not big on eating sugar. And there were no presents—but I don’t need any more stuff. Yet I felt I needed some sort of presentation to mark the day.

Then it occurred to me that I could give myself a gift. Not a thing I purchased. Something better. Something that would shore me up in times of doubt: I could officially recognize my superpower. It can be difficult to complement ourselves in any way, let alone admit to a superpower. But maybe we all should try it anyway. 

My superpower is not my ability to fix a lawnmower tractor, although if my sweetie were alive, he would call me “a genius” and regale you with stories of how I know just which parts to order and can put them together all by myself. 

It’s not my writing, although I’m mighty grateful that I have the ability to turn a phrase and am fearless enough to unleash some of these phrases in public. 

It’s not my music, or my sewing, or my innate ability to befriend most any dog.

My superpower is my toothy grin. It happens reflexively, and rarely fails to get a smile in return. I use it on stressed-out shoppers in Walmart. On people grunting and grimacing during a workout at the community center. Just walking down the street. My smile lifts spirits with zero effort. Is that not a superpower?

Once, in a cafe in Gallup, New Mexico, a Native American man I’d never met before handed me a piece of turquoise for having “the best smile in the West.”

It works in the east, too. For good reason. (See Above.)