Today, 24 December, is my thirty-first birthday.

I do not remember the year my birthdays went from instilling joy to provoking dread and desperation, but I do remember the last really good birthday I had. Picture it: Christmas Eve, 1995. Living with my then-boyfriend Erich in Chicago, far from my Maryland point of origin, I faced my first birthday away from my family. I believe that was the year Erich got me an umbrella as a gift, but the best present of all was that my dearest friends, Viki and Tiffany, were on hand to celebrate with me.

Being a devout Greek Orthodox Christian, Viki asked if we might visit a nearby church to see a miracle. Apparently, an icon of the Virgin Mary had been weeping, and thousands of people had witnessed this; some claimed to have been healed of various ailments and afflictions. "Sure," I said. "Maybe she will cure my infected skin tag." I had a skin tag, you see, and it was badly infected because I had been picking at it. I showed it to my friends, who agreed that it was not pretty.

So we went to the church, which was deserted, and saw the icon. It was not weeping (obviously it did not get wind we were coming or it would have been inconsolable), but the tear tracks on the glass and down the front of the painting were as clear as day. I do recall feeling dizzy for a moment. I had to sit down.

Later, when we got home, the skin tag was gone, as if it had never been there.

Later still, we went to a gay bar that was showing a movie called Meet the Feebles, which featured a group of shoddy puppets singing a song with the line: "Sodomy . . . you might think it's rather odd o' me!"

Ah, the sacred and the profane.

Apparently, since I entered my thirties, my birthday no longer warrants miracles. Unless getting out of bed counts.