Husband is in for real treat

When it comes to birthdays, there are two kinds of people.

One group - which I belong to - believes every birthday should be celebrated with a governor's proclamation and a 21-tuba salute.

The other group - which husband, Irwin, belongs to - believes every birthday should be spent lying in the dark in the fetal position, waiting for the next 24 hours to pass.

I don't really know where these differing attitudes come from. It could begin in-utero, when the ultrasound technician turns to the mother and says: "You'll never believe this, but it looks like the baby is wearing a party hat."

More likely, it stems from our own upbringings. My mother, for instance, was a consummate partyologist. She would spend weeks planning menus, inventing games and making invitations and party decorations. One of her crowning glories was the circus party she planned for sister Verbena's sixth birthday. Complete with stuffed lions in miniature cages and a cake that resembled a carousel, it offered everything but the sawdust.

Irwin, however, claims that birthdays were a relatively low-key affair in his large family. As proof, he presents a series of photos that show his various tow-headed siblings parked in front of a similar-looking cake, invariably frosted with pink frosting. He likes to joke that every birthday was celebrated with the same cake, which his mother dusted off for the occasion.

Still, I thought my anti-birthday mate would warm up at the prospect of a landmark celebration. He was turning 40 - an event I believed he should share with 50 of his dearest friends. Months in advance, my party-planning brain was churning: Where should it be? What should I serve? Who should be invited? Will Donald Trump come?

But whenever I broached the subject, Irwin's head would practically spin off. "No! I do not want a birthday," he huffed. "We can go out to dinner. That will be just fine."

Even more surprising was his anguish at turning 40. While I remembered my 30th birthday as somewhat traumatic, I shared no such misgivings a decade later. I believed 40 distanced me even further from my idiotic 20s, and gave me the right to be as aggressively anti-cool as possible. I no longer had to worry about driving a four-door sedan with Cat Stevens cranked and the windows open. I could let my gray hair show, and I looked forward to wearing sweatsocks with sandals on the beach.

But Irwin wasn't nearly as pumped. "My life is half over," he moaned. I feared the next step would be a red sports car accessorized by a 22-year-old blond.

And so I did what any loving, sensitive, supportive wife would do.

I planned a surprise party.

At the time of this entry, it hasn't occurred yet. But I'm sure he will love it. I've planned all the food and invited 50 of his closest friends. I've purchased Mylar balloons that scream: "Kiss Me: I'm Over the Hill!" I bought some Over the Hill scalp polish, which is supposed to make the aging man's chrome dome as soft as a baby's bottom.

He's gonna love it.

Either that, or he's running away with the blond.

Tammy Swift writes a weekly column for The Forum. She can be reached at tsruse2001@yahoo.com