Today is B's eighty-first birthday. "How much makeup should an 81-year-old woman wear?" she asks me as she examines her face in the mirror. She is delighted when her son calls her to sing happy birthday and all the members of her Tuesday social group join in too. She says she wonders how many more birthdays she will celebrate.
I've become so accustomed to reciting her birthday to pharmacists and doctors and customer service agents that I hand the grocery clerk a six-pack and don't understand his confusion when I tell him my birth date is April 27, 1929.
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