Why should it matter? What’s so special about the anniversary of my birth? I just know he’s planning a surprise party for me. I’m not stupid. I see all the signs.

Mark always does this. He acts nonchalant. He gives me a list of errands he’s got to do. That means he’s setting things up, decorating, gathering friends I haven’t seen for years. There will be a cake with a couple of candles. Okay, a bunch of candles. And big wrapped boxes of presents. He’s not getting a haircut and picking up a few staples.

I go along. I pretend not to notice. I’m a good sport. When he tells me we’re going out to a new place tonight and he brings me into the private room at a restaurant and everybody yells “surprise!” I’ll act surprised.

But, if you think about it, why does it matter where the Earth was in orbit at the time I started this life? I’m not big on astrology. A birthday is just another day. I don’t see the positions of celestial bodies as relevant to my life. But Mark is Mark. He means well.

Speaking of which, that must be him at the door.

“Hi, Mark.”

“Hi, Jeannie. I’m really tired tonight. Why don’t we just stay home?”

Gee, his hair looks really nice and he’s carrying a paper bag with eggs, milk and a loaf of bread. I’m starting to feel pissed.