Does there ever come a time when birthdays don’t warrant a minimum of a week long celebration? It’s my birthday week. It’s my birthday month. Certainly moms send cupcakes to school on their actual birthday, then the kids party at Chuck E Cheese’s or Dave and Buster’s, followed by their family get together where they get to eat their favorite meal, which may mean cereal for dinner. They get to wear silly hats and eat too much sugar and play games and watch magic. And they celebrate, just because they were born. As we get older, we start to shed the trappings of the birthday celebration. Maybe we don’t want to acknowledge how old we are or we can’t afford to give ourselves a big blow out or we don’t want to go out in bad weather to celebrate at a restaurant. We tell our significant others not to buy us a gift because we have to fix the shower door or pay the electrician. Well, I turned 56 yesterday. And my husband and I ordered take out and drank tequila and talked for hours, and it was a great evening. But it’s my birthday month, and next week I’m going to a party that some of my friends are throwing for me. And I am not ruling out dancing with a fruit basket on my head.