My birthday wish is that I never become ashamed of my age.

My birthday celebration Friday was a normal day for me. Patrick and Jerry sent me off into the cold, rainy morning with an off-key rendition of "Happy Birthday" (regardless of the song, it's always off-key), then I trudged off to the gym for my daily dose of torture at my step aerobics and ab classes.

I figured I'd feel a lot less guilty about my gluttony Friday evening if I put in a good workout 12 hours beforehand.

I arrived back in the office several hours later to little fanfare. My co-workers were wrapped up in their weekly Friday crises and weren't in the least concerned about my birthday.

A couple of them muttered birthday wishes when they noticed the floral arrangement I'd received from a local school district (thanks!), and one friendless soul asked me why in the world I would want to advertise my age to the world.

"Birthdays are not public information," said the person, whose identity I'm protecting. "Nobody believes women when they tell how old they are anyway. Usually they're lying."

Well, how rude is that? Even though some people think I'm older, I proudly proclaim my age every year. I'm 27 this year and darn proud of it. I hope I'll be able to say the same thing when I'm 47, 57, or even older.

What's with people that they think women should be ashamed of their age? Every day we have on this Earth is a blessing, a precious gift. So are all of those laugh lines and gray hairs.

I intend to take note of each and every year I'm still here, because I wouldn't want God thinking I was ungrateful or something.

No need to look for trouble.

You know, maybe I feel this way because I've never lost any of the things women, and in some cases, men, are supposed to lose with age. I was born with gray hair, so I take it as a sign of wisdom that should be highlighted instead of covered by a skillful beautician with a good bottle of hair dye.

And I don't expect to lose any firm facial skin to a mass of wrinkles. Number one, my face, while smooth, has never been firm. Number two, black women age well, especially in my family, so wrinkles probably won't be a problem as long as I don't take up smoking.

Then there's my body type. I guess thin women who start picking up weight would have a problem with the onset of age. As for me, I've always been what nice people would euphemistically refer to as "big-boned," so that's not a real problem.

And don't mention that post-pregnancy body bemoaned by so many older women. I can't remember a time when anything on me could ever have been called "perky," and I'll probably have to have liposuction to ever see the results of all those crunches I do everyday.

In short, Mother Nature has been kind enough to spare me the day when I'd say "I remember when I could go all day without a bra" or "I remember when I could wear size 8 jeans." Rather, that kind lady gave me something much more valuable: an honest appreciation for who and what I am, regardless of what that looks like or how old it gets.

My birthday wish is that I never become ashamed of my age. I also hope other women come out from under the bed covers and go have a good time on their birthdays. Celebrate your special day, and force everybody to tell you how good you look for your age.

It's not every day you can solicit compliments from the general public. Take advantage of it, and go get your free meal at Denny's.

~Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.