So, yesterday I finished my 52nd rotation of the sun. Started the old 53rd.

It’s funny how, the older you get, the less you care about outwardly observing the day you made your big debut to the other humans, no?

Well, that’s how it is for THIS human, anyway.

I’d much rather celebrate the birthdays of my favorite earthlings than think about the day I interrupted my Mother’s lunch in a such an intrusive, unpleasant way just before noon on March 27, 1968.

Sorry about that, Ma.

Not that she’s ever complained. Or ever would.

Nor would I … or any mum, yo. That’s just the way it is, you see. Because no matter how much it hurts, no matter which day part it obliterates, no matter how much ickiness, mushified yucky and / or blechy-blech it happens to generate, a mother will ALWAYS embrace the absolute miracle that is the birth of her child.

Anytime, anywhere, anyhow. Period. No matter how gross it is. Know what I’m sayin’?

That’s just how we moms roll, yo.

This year, just for something wildly off the beaten path, I decided to spend my special day in quarantine. With COVID-19.

It was tons o’ fun.

When it’s your birthday and you have the modern-day plague, you get to be the Pariah, er, I mean Queen for the Day.

Or, like 10 of ’em or so. I digress.

On your leper, um, I mean COVID-19 big day, you get lots and lots of opportunities to self-focus.

And I’m talking, tons.

Remember how the Tom Hanks character in “Castaway” got to solo vacation on that deserted island for a spell? Yeah, it’s that kind of quality “me” time.

In fact, COVID-19 birthdays are akin to that whole mid-stretch of the movie. Oh, you don’t remember it? That’s because you probably nodded off.

In between the scenes when Fed Ex exec Chuck gets called away from his fiancee and family Christmas dinner to transport important packages (that apparently absolutely positively had to be there overnight), his plane crashes and yadda yadda yadda, they’re reunited (sorta), there’s a whole bunch of … um, time.

As in, the movie’s whole main arc is a SLOW moving depiction of him struggling to make clothes, find food, take shelter, crack open coconuts, start to lose touch with reality by befriending a volleyball — and oh, yeah, attempting to get rescued.

It’s a fascinating man vs. nature battle. And by fascinating I mean as boring as a four-hour study hall under the watchful eye of your school principal. Who is a Catholic nun. Insisting on silence.

Yeah, COVID-19 birthdays are a lot like that. Full of — let’s refer to it as solitude.

Feels more like solitary confinement.

Hmpf.

There’s lots of advantages, though. Tons. Loads. Like… I’m thinking, I’m thinking.

Oh, right. So, firstly, you get the whole couch all to yourself. And the recliner. And the ottoman. And the rocking chair.

In fact, the family room is pretty much yours for the taking. Or sitting, sleeping, eating, working and basically existing, ya feel me?

You don’t have to fight for the remote because nobody wants to touch it after you. Same with the serving spoon. And the fridge handle. And the hallway closet doorknob.

Also, you can eat anything you want without fear that someone will want to split, share or swipe it.

Sigh.

Cooties Patty birthday was … certainly ONE way to go.

In truth, I’m just grateful to be on the other side of IT and COVID-19.

And I’m thankful to the Big Guy for both, capisce? Thanks, Big Guy.

• Kimerer is a columnist in search of friendly volleyball face. Contact her via www.patriciakimerer.com.