My birthday is this week.

I’m not completely comfortable with that. I’ve never been this old before. Well actually, I could say the same thing about yesterday and today. But our yearly birthday markers are a little different. They make us stop and think.

I’ve been thinking about the numbers that have stacked up already vs. the amount that might be left. Seems a little lop-sided. But I’ll take what I can get since it’s probably a decision I am not allowed to make, anyway.

I can get pushy about gifts though. I don’t want any. Essentially, I don’t want any more STUFF. The only allowable boxed gift is perfume. Dear Richard has a standing order to keep me in my brand. It’s a consumable without a long shelf life.

Very few things ring my chimes as presents these days. Experiences are nice. Just doing something new and special is a treat. When my children give me theater or concert tickets, I call that Heaven in an Envelope. And any night I don’t have to cook dinner is a gift.

Other than that, the most important item on top of the wish list? Comfort. The everyday creature comforts, the comforts of good friends and relationships, and the comfort of a loving good family – what more can we ask for?

At least the weatherman has been mostly considerate so far in the comfort scale. He must have heard my request.

Year after year, decade after decade, there has always been a killing frost before my cupcake day. More often than not, there has been snow.

We’ve had a small handful of cooler nights, but this year my begonias are still passionately flowering.

Given the beautiful days we’ve had this week, it’s difficult to think about autumn getting colder and winter lurking just around the corner.

Sadly, I turned the heat on about a week ago. I like to hold off. We NEVER give in during September, and hold off as far into October nights as possible.

Every year, it’s a bit of a contest to see how long we can hold off. I’m beginning to think that game is over. Last week when we had the cool nights? I was uncomfortably chilled. Enough! No more dodge-the-thermostat games. The Comfort Games will prevail in the future.

It seems that the same weekend the air-conditioners are shut down or struggled out of the windows, it’s time to open those windows a crack at night with a fluffy, white duvet on the bed. I’m sure Freud would have his say about this, but I drift off faster and sleep more deeply when I’m cuddled up under that airy puff.

Sigmund would probably say it’s either a return to the womb, or at the very least an early bassinet. I know when I was a kid that snuggling up under lots of covers not only kept me warm but protected me from that terrifying monster that lived under the bed. Although I slept near the edge, I never dangled a hand or foot over the side knowing full well he would grab me and pull me under. Those layers of heavy blankets protected me from the green, hairy ogre. My current midnight monsters, sleeplessness and arthritis, are usually subdued when I surrender under the miraculous down protector. I now know why it’s called a comforter.

Cool mornings find me crawling out of the sack directly into my beloved, blue fuzzy bathrobe. I noticed this autumn, that eight years of non-stop warming have taken a toll on this cozy, old friend. The sleeves are tattered, the collar is worn but its shabbiness makes it somehow even more comfortable.

I don’t imagine that the weekly washings are contributing to the robe’s longevity but many habits of its owner dictate regular laundry time. Come to think of it, I probably wear this ratty robe more than any other garment I own. If I figured out its purchase price on a cost-per-wearing basis it’s probably been less than a penny a day. That’s enough to make a frugal Yankee proud … and a small price for comfort.

Birthdays and comfort don’t sound like a natural combination.

But I’ve decided that they have to be weighed equally beside each other. If aging is mandatory and comfort is an option, I’ll take a slice of each on the same cake plate.

However, I don’t think I’ll ever be old enough or comfortable enough to wear pajamas to Walmart. I have my limits.

Marcy can be reached at Moby.32 @hotmail.com.