One year older

Twenty something years ago, Slinky entered this crazy world while her parents wondered she was such an odd color, and briefly wondered if the nurses had accidentally switched babies.

As time went on, Slinky grew a hell of a lot of hair, learned how to talk (much to the delight, then eventual chagrin of her parents), learned to walk (eventually graduating to walking in knee-high stiletto boots, although not without experiencing considerable pain), learned how to make friends, lose friends, stand up for herself, give in (Grudgingly. The 'with grace' part still needs to be learned), and how to fall in love and out of love (the mechanics of it still elude Slinky, but she knows it can, and will, happen). Slinky learned that life was a lot more complicated that she had ever given it credit for, she learned that letting go is terribly hard, that life wasn't fair, that sometimes that's just the way it is.

Every birthday that passes whittles you down some more, to bring you closer to the core of the person you'll be, depending on the choices you make and the decisions you take. We take shape as time goes on.

When I closed my eyes and made a wish before blowing out the candles last night, I wished for two things. Funny, they're so simple, but they're the hardest things in the world.

The one thing about my birthdays which never change from year to year is the fact that my family is always there to celebrate it with me. Boyfriends and friends across the years have learned that no matter what, I need to be home by a reasonable time to cut my cake with my family. A little like Cinderella, without the pumpkin, fairy godmother, and if Cinderella wore denim shorts. The cakes have changed (black forest, mango, chocolate, and in one well-intentioned but tragic instance, durian) and the people present have sometimes changed, but it's always the same.

The cake is always brought out with its usual lack of ceremony, parents and siblings gathering around either the dining table or the coffee table in the living area. There is the requisite gratuitous photo taking (accompanied by yells of "Daddy! Don't take my photo when I'm doing that!" and the inevitable follow-up "Hee hee" by my erstwhile father) which has resulted in many, many unfortunate photos of several of us with our mouths open, eyes rolled back in our heads a la Linda Blair, striking serial killer poses with the gargantuan cake knife (the bloody thing is serrated, needle-sharp and over a foot long. Dahmer would cream himself.), making puffer-fish faces while blowing out candles, and generally looking like magnificent idiots.

Then there is always the problem of finding the right number of candles, finding a lighter which wouldn't blowtorch your eyebrows off because my pyromaniac sister had 'adjusted' it, finding matches because no such lighter existed, then the off-key, gurgling singing of the birthday song (where sometimes people would sing the wrong name) and the ritual "Make a wish!!".

By the end of the cake-cutting, the celebrant was usually blind because of camera flash and in danger of breaking his/her stomach from eating cake after the celebratory dinner.

This year's family portrait included helpless laughter ("Huh?"), screaming ("Daddy, it's a cockroach, kill it kill it kill it!!") and too much cake.

It doesn't matter how old we are, or what we've done, or failed to do. As long as it's your birthday, we will celebrate it, even if it's just the five of us. And I love them for it.

Thank you everyone else who remembered and called me/ messaged me/ emailed me. I'm astonished how many of you remembered, especially given that I never remember ANYONE'S birthday.

PS: I'm still waiting for last year's wishlist to materialize. I have not given up hope.