the number 23

I am not in the habit of doing anything particularly special for my birthday. Last year, if I recall correctly, MD and I went out for a nice but low-key dinner. The year before, it was my first day staying in someone else's house on a cooperative farm in Costa Rica. Two years before that, the big day was spent mostly in a minivan with four people I didn't know very well, trying valiantly to get from Denver to Phoenix - a 16-hour doozy, during which I never mentioned that it was my nineteenth birthday.

The thing is, I don't like to make a big fuss, or make people feel like they're obligated to be nice to me or give me special treatment. If you hate me the other 364 days of the year, the anniversary of my birth shouldn't be any different.

That's not to say I don't appreciate some small acknowledgment. Like most people, I'd be a little upset if everyone forgot entirely, but a simple, "Oh, by the way, happy birthday," from a few loved ones is more than enough to keep me from going all Molly Ringwald.

This year, I planned to keep things pretty quiet: dinner in the city, Skype chats with a couple friends, maybe treat myself to a massage and a new book. I hoped that most people wouldn't realize it was my birthday at all.

No such luck. I have no idea how the news got out, but everyone knew by the end of the day. I think I remember mentioning it offhand to Elsa a few weeks ago - probably when she expressed surprise at my tender age of 22 - but I assumed she'd forgotten until Harriet searched me out to deliver a pair of huge, fabulously garish earrings, which were so perfectly me that I immediately switched them out with the pair I was wearing. Harriet made a point of telling me they were from Elsa, probably because she didn't want me to think she'd chosen such ugly things. (Elsa told me later that her mom had in fact thought they were too big and loud, but Elsa had insisted that they were my style.)

I must have told Rosalind, too, because Alma informed me she's the one who spilled the beans to the Vietnamese. Alma and Winnie ambushed me in the morning with a joyfully off-key rendition of Happy Birthday, as well as three different cards: Winnie's short and sweet, Rosalind's in textbook-perfect English, and Alma's almost invisible under a thick layer of stickers. I blushed and cringed and thanked them - and then, like the coward I am, I ran away. I intended to hide in the office, but it proved no sanctuary, as our social worker Agatha pulled out an incredibly sweet card that George and Ruthie had left behind for me. (They've been in Vietnam for the last two weeks, so how the hell they knew, I have no idea.)

Later in the morning, Betty came in and stood next to my chair, a terrible scowl darkening her normally cheerful visage. Slightly alarmed, I asked what was wrong. She continued to glare at me for several seconds, then abruptly burst into a huge grin and flung herself at me, bellowing Happy Birthday at the top of her lungs. "Shut up, shut up," I wailed, totally in vain, as she just cackled wildly and squeezed me tighter.

Later still, Winnie came to the door of the office and asked me to come with her. It's not an unusual request, and the reward for cooperation is often papaya salad, so I happily joined her for a stroll behind the women's residence, arms slung around each other's waists. We meandered along, idly discussing the plague of tiny frogs that had suddenly descended on the farm that morning, and it wasn't until we approached the gazebo and I saw all the women gathered together that my brain started howling, "IT'S A TRAP!"

The women burst into that hateful song, led by a beaming Betty, and I smacked Winnie's shoulder and hid my crimson face in my hands like the socially inept ingrate I am. Then I noticed Pippi walking over from the office bearing a serving dish piled high with ice cream, the melting tower obscured by a mass of flaming yellow candles. Everyone sang again, presumably because they enjoyed watching me squirm, and I managed to blow out the candles and thank everyone without passing out or embarrassing myself any further.

I'm still pretty embarrassed about all the ballyhoo - so very unexpected because it's practically unheard-of around these parts - and I'm sure there were many people that were strong-armed into participating who really didn't give a damn one way or another. But I'm not so ungrateful as to demean the actions and effort of the handful of people who were behind it all, who just wanted to do something special and make me happy.

So even though they'll (God willing) never read this, let me just say for the record: thanks, you guys. I love you too.