My poor friend, Michelle, is turning 40 on Sunday. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it is something we 39-year-olds hope to experience in spite of its downhill connotation, as it certainly beats the alternative.

But for most of her life, Michelle has never enjoyed celebrating her annual trip around the sun.

As one who spends 364 days a year craving my own birthday cake, I found this phenomenon of loathing most puzzling. Even Michelle had never really known why this was until we started discussing her aversion over lunch last summer, when one event in particular stood out.

“It was 1981,” she began, “I was turning 10…”

Michelle, looking forward to a day of friends, cake and ice cream, spent the day helping her dad ready the backyard. As president of the homeowner’s association, he had granted their neighbors permission to provide hot air balloon rides in the common space between them for the party, guaranteeing Michelle’s 10th birthday to be the most memorable ever.

Everything was falling perfectly into place until, with less than an hour to go, Michelle’s sister happened upon their family dog, Puddles, lying limp on the bathroom floor.

The whole family circled around their furriest member, who was stricken with a sudden and irreversible health crisis, and watched helplessly as Puddles, looking up at them, painstakingly drew one final breath before leaving this world for doggie heaven.

Fortunately, as president of the homeowner’s association, Michelle’s dad was able to grant himself emergency permission to bury Puddles in the common space behind their backyard, allowing them to squeeze in Puddles’ funeral just before the big party.

“I still remember the sound of the shovel patting down the pile of dirt on Puddles’ neighborhood grave moments before the doorbell rang,” she lamented.

A flock of revelers soon filled Michelle’s home, giddy with birthday glee and trying hard to pull Michelle out from her sadness over poor Puddles’ untimely demise. Michelle went through the motions of opening gifts and eating cake and, just when the party spirit started to spark somewhere deep within her, they all made their way past the new neighborhood pet cemetery for the highly anticipated hot air balloon rides.

“I can see my house!” one friend exclaimed from the tethered balloon high in the air.

“I can see our school!” squealed another.

But all Michelle saw with every trip up and down was an aerial view of the fresh pile of dirt under which Puddles lay.

“Do you think that could be why I don’t like celebrating my birthday?” she asked at the conclusion of her sad tale.

I’m no psychologist, but I believe that is called a breakthrough.

Hopefully this Sunday will mark a turning point, though, for my dear Michelle. May 40 usher in a new era of happy birthdays, and may the view from the hot air balloon of life always be lovely.