I turned 63 on Dec. 4.

Unlike many women of my vintage, birthdays are a very public celebration in my house.

It’s always been that way.

From the time I understood the concept of getting older, the 4th day of the last month has been a chance to revel in the joy of having made it safely through the birth canal — thank you momma — and into this amazing world.

For youngsters with their hopes of presents and sugary delights, that’s a normal thing. But as we get older, we’re supposed to hate, or at least ignore, our birthdays.

That’s especially so for women because age has somehow become associated with human depreciation. The extra mileage on our chronological odometers, manifested in gray hair, wrinkles and extra avoirdupois is considered an inconvenience at best, an embarrassment at worst.

I understand that getting older is not always a joy for some people.

My perspective is different, given my personal circumstances. Gratitude for my graying hair stems from the fact that my father, a feisty redheaded Irishman, never had the chance to see even one gray in that thick crown of auburn.

He died at the age of 43, from inoperable lung cancer.

“Appreciation” of my extra weight comes from the fact that my brother, an athletic runner with the body of a track-and-field star, never had the chance to develop a middle-aged tire. He died a few months before his 31st birthday.

Tolerance of my wrinkles derives from the fact that my aunt, a beautiful woman with the translucent skin of her French-Swedish mother and the high cheekbones of her Chinese father never had a need for Botox. She died in her sleep at the age of 40.

And some cousins and other relatives left this Earth long before their bodies had stopped working.

So I rejoice in the ability to wake up in the morning, especially this year when I am exactly 20 years older than my father will ever be. Gratitude is essential, and the lack of it makes you unworthy of blessings.

On the other hand, some people have become unpleasantly obsessed with what I call “humble bragging,” the dishonest attempt at self-deprecation on social media in an attempt to have people tell them how great they look for their age. I really hate it when someone who has lived a charmed life plays that game for legions of followers, particularly when so many people were never given the opportunity to seek affirmation from strangers before prematurely leaving this Earth.

The other day, Valerie Bertinelli, who has been very open over the past few years about her weight and self-esteem struggles, posted a selfie where she posed in her underwear with a box of Nutrisse hair color — the same brand I use — to discuss her issues. It was a picture of a once-beautiful, still quite lovely 64-year-old without makeup and sagging skin but a well-toned body telling her followers that this is what 64 looks like.

Another post from Bertinelli attacking the trolls who told her that a 64-year-old woman posing in her underwear is maybe not the best way to show inner strength and self-awareness. I think they were correct.

She seemed to have a different view of the situation, writing in part, “To all of you that would sit in judgment of my body, the photo, and my reason for posting it, I hope you find a place in your heart to not judge yourself as harshly as you judge others. I have dealt with judgment my entire life starting from when I was a young girl. It has taken me a long time to realize that my judgment, with patient discernment, is the only judgment that counts … I don’t care what you think of my body. I don’t care what you think about my posting about it. For the first time in my life, I love my body as it is.”

My point, if you’ve somehow missed it, is that life is fragile, precious and transient.

We are blessed to reach our birthdays and to be able to celebrate them with our loved ones. As that circle diminishes and the celebration becomes smaller, our appreciation for what remains should increase exponentially. And we should embrace the vestiges of age that prove we are still here.

So as I move into the middle of my seventh decade, I promise to remain fully aware of the blessings God, nature and my dentist have given me.

And I also promise never to post any photos in my underwear to prove how happy I am to still be alive.

You’re quite welcome.

Copyright 2024 Christine Flowers