When your husband has spent most of his life in tailored suits, moving discreetly between boardrooms across 10 different countries, his persona is not associated with birthday fireworks. None at all.
In fact, for his upcoming birth anniversary this month, I half-expected him to suggest we mark the occasion with a nod, a steaming cup of coffee, and maybe a short monologue on the dismal fallout of Trump Tariffs.
But I underestimated him. “We should do something,” he said this morning, in the casual way he comments about everything, as if proposing a minor bank transfer, not a birthday celebration.
Having lived across continents, from Asia to Africa, the Middle East to Europe, and negotiated everything from currency crashes to misplaced passports, my spouse has perfected the art of low-drama living.
However, there are certain cosmic coincidences that make one believe that the universe does have a sense of humour. Take my case, for instance. I not only exchanged matrimonial vows with a banker but married a man who actually shares his birthday with my own mother! How much more star crossed can one get?
So, my husband and my lovely Mum were both born on the seventh of May and after several decades of marital shenanigans, this year my spouse has arrived at an age where he has accumulated a lifetime of wisdom, he tells me. And also a legitimate reason to take a much-deserved afternoon nap, he says.
I am not entirely convinced about either.
Nevertheless, back in the day, when my mum was alive, their birthday ritual was a well-rehearsed act. ‘Happy birthday!’ one would call out, to be instantly countered by a cheery ‘Same to you!’ It resembled an inside joke, as if they were secret members of an exclusive birthday club.
Now that my mother has been gone for 25 years, the day still feels tinged with a cocktail of bittersweet emotions, one part celebration, one part nostalgia, and one very large part of me trying not to eat an entire cake by myself.
Meanwhile, these days my spouse observes his birthday with feigned indifference. Relocating to Portugal – a country with sunshine, sardines, and suspiciously frequent public holidays – it’s the perfect place for him to finally live out his dream of becoming a gentleman of leisure.
And so, as his data de nascimento approaches, the preparations begin. Not by him. Of course not. He simply relaxes on the sofa while I scramble to create the perfect joyful ambiance for him. And around him.
This morning, I asked what theme he would like. He jumped up as if I had suggested a trip to Mars! I just want a quiet day, you know, something simple, he protested. Which, in his language, translates to a full day of pampering that appears effortless but actually requires the project management skills of a NASA engineer.
“But maybe low-key is what he wants,” whispered our daughter conspiratorially on the phone.
“What shall I do?” I asked.
“Book a table at his favourite restaurant,” she said.
“Order his beloved pineapple cake,” she added.
“Also several dozen candles to mark his advancing years,” I chuckled.
“He will blow them with a sheepish smile,” she laughed.
“I might even hear my mum’s laugh in the faint breeze,” I said nostalgically.
“Or an echo of their familiar old greeting,” our daughter reminisced.
“Happy birthday, she would have said,” I quoted.
“Same to you, he would have replied,” we chorused.
