My birthday shows up every year right around Thanksgiving, like an uninvited houseguest who insists on arriving three days early and “helping.” The holiday season is already chaotic enough, and here comes my birthday, dragging age, reflection, and a sudden craving for cake into the mix.

I share my birthday week with airport meltdowns, grocery store fistfights over the last can of pumpkin, and people Googling “How long can a thawed turkey sit out before it becomes a biohazard?” Somehow, the universe thinks this is the perfect moment for me to celebrate surviving another trip around the sun.

And speaking of aging—let’s talk about that.

At this point, if someone wants to put candles on my cake, I make them sign a liability waiver. I don’t need a birthday; I need a fire marshal on standby. By the time the last candle is lit, the first few have completely burned down, scorching the icing on the cake. Thank goodness for the birthday candles that are numbers. That way, I can have only two candles, and I’m pretty sure I can make a wish and blow them all out without requiring an oxygen tank.

My bones make noises that I’m pretty sure require an exorcist. My back has filed a formal complaint. And my idea of “living on the edge” is staying up past 10 p.m.

The birthday gifts have changed, too. Now? I’m thrilled by:

• A gadget that opens jars without dislocating a shoulder
• A heating pad roughly the size of Nebraska
• And the kind of socks that make you whisper, “Wow… these are nice socks.”

And the timing. Oh, the timing.

Having a birthday right around Thanksgiving means I am never the main character. Ever. Happy Birthday to me—now go baste something.

My cake, if indeed there is one, because of all the pies, is usually surrounded by discussions about whether we have enough pies, whether the gravy will have lumps, and whose digestive system will have the worst week. Absolutely magical.

But, I will admit, there are some upsides:

Upside #1: I get to deflect any uncomfortable age-related questions with food. “How old am I?” Hand them stuffing. “Guess.” On second thought, don’t guess. I don’t really want to know how old people really think I am. Someone saying, “Ninety-two, but you sure don’t look it,” is hard on my ego.

Upside #2: If I look tired, people assume it’s from Thanksgiving prep. Nobody needs to know it’s from merely existing.

Upside #3: I get an entire national parade. Sure, it’s for a holiday and not for me personally, but Macy’s has never explicitly denied it’s in my honor. So, I’m taking the win.

Aging overall has now become part of my seasonal traditions. Like Thanksgiving, it arrives with good intentions, makes a huge mess, and leaves me feeling equal parts grateful and exhausted.
But truthfully?

A birthday near Thanksgiving does force me to pause and appreciate things—mainly the fact that I’m still here, still laughing, and still flexible enough (barely) to tie my shoes without needing medical assistance.

So, here’s to another year older, another year snarkier, and another chance to pretend the fine lines around my eyes are smile marks and not the results of squinting at tiny ingredient labels way too often.

If anyone asks how old I am this year, I’ll simply say:

“Old enough to know better. Young enough to do it anyway. Now hand over the pie.”