I turned 38 this year. I’ve never been a huge birthday person. The thought of throwing a birthday party riddles me with anxiety. My earliest memories of birthdays are more about the anxiety of planning my party than of the actual party. Will anyone come? Will they have fun? Will everyone be looking at me?

As an adult, each year I entertain the thought, “Should I plan a dinner?” I never do – check splitting anxiety. So, my birthday anxiety has always been about the actual event, not aging. 38 felt different. This year I couldn’t help but think about how I was aging. I’ve always thought I’d be okay with getting older. I’ve been consistently moisturizing since my 21st birthday, at least from the neck up. From the neck up, I’m holding strong.

But why did 38 hit me so hard? The only thing I could suspect was I missed Steve. Steve was my tried and true, Facebook wall birthday poster. I could count on him since 2012 in the same way I rely on the perennial whisker that grows on my chin every month. Each year Steve was there, wishing me a happy birthday. 

What made Steve so special was that I only ever spent five minutes with him during one fateful debaucherous summer evening in 2012. And at least two of those minutes were spent making out. We barely spoke. We were at a basement bar in Manhattan that was a sweltering 100 degrees and packed with sweaty, horny 20-somethings. Thinking about the lack of air in the room makes me ill. Steve was the second gentleman I made out with that night. The first was some guy whose name I can’t remember but who was very attractive. He said to me, “I’d eat you out right now, but you seem really sweaty.” He wasn’t wrong; I was sweaty. My clothes were drenched, and you could tell he thought women didn’t sweat. Clearly, this wasn’t going to work. Also, where was this said “eating out” going to take place?

I made my way to the bar to find my best friend. Instead, I found Steve. Self-consciously feeling undesirable due to my plentiful perspiration, I grabbed Steve and made out with him. Steve was in shock, a pleasant shock. He ordered me a drink; we talked for 3 minutes, exchanged numbers, and then I was whisked away by my friend who had resurfaced. Steve and I promised we would text. At the next bar, I met make-out number three. He was a petite Irishman with a very Irish name. We proceeded to make out on the dance floor and then some more in a bathroom stall. Really, what was wrong with me? We were kicked out of the bar, and he and I smoked cigarettes on the curb until my friend found me. This is the only time I was ever ejected from a bar.

Afterward, Steve and I exchanged occasional text messages but never met up. However, like clockwork, Steve would wish me a happy birthday on Facebook each year. Years went by, and finally, Steve became engaged to Patricia. Patricia looked like a lovely woman, and I thought this was the year Steve stopped wishing me happy birthday. He continued. Steve and Patricia married – beautiful pictures. Still,  I received a happy birthday. Patricia got pregnant – classic maternity shoot. She was glowing. Happy birthday persisted. Another baby. “Happy Birthday, Erica!” He would even throw in my name and make it personal, which became a running joke between my best friend and me.

Then Covid 2020 rolled around. I received a, “All the best to you!” Covid, 2021: “Happy, Happy Birthday!” I got two happy’s! 2022 arrives, and … nothing. Here’s the thing, I’m not very active on FB. In fact, I’m nonexistent. I don’t wish other people a happy birthday, so why do I expect this from Steve? However, in the last nine years, this didn’t seem to be an issue for him. I had to do some research. I fired up Facebook and discovered Steve had unfriended me. GASP. A real punch to the gut. No happy birthday and now I’ve lost a friend. What gives, Steve?!

I furiously texted my best friend. We came up with two main theories:

1: Steve was in the doghouse with Patricia, aka marital strife. Perhaps, Steve had an extramarital affair earlier this year? His last FB post was a glowing review of Patricia’s wifely skills, with soundbites like, “we don’t deserve her….” “She does so much for our family.” “I’m the luckiest man alive.” So, Steve cheated. Then Patricia hovered over Steve’s shoulder as he went through his FB friend list and asked for the identity of every woman he was friends with. Naturally, when they got to me, and he revealed our origin story, I had to go. I don’t blame Patricia.  Or…

2:  Steve realized I got married, and it killed the fantasy. I changed my name on FB in 2021 AFTER my birthday. Maybe he saw me as this mythical drive-by maker outer who took what I wanted at the moment, and I simply blew his mind. Maybe, I was this fantasy figure in his life that he thought about every year? Was I the one who got away? Then once he saw I was ringed up and had a baby, I reminded him too much of Patricia. The ship officially sailed…..   

Oh, did I mention I had a baby earlier this year? 38 was my first birthday as a mom… DUH. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what Steve meant to me. Maybe I enjoyed remembering that night each year. Maybe I’m afraid that without Steve reminding me, I’ll forget about that night and who I was in that youthful, fleeting moment… Maybe, just maybe, Steve actually blew my mind?

Either way, Steve is gone, and I am now a 38-year-old woman, who is responsible for taking care of a human being. Thank you, Steve. Even though you’ll never read this, I’m grateful for all the “Happy Happy Birthdays… All the best to you.”