At a certain age, one’s birthday becomes less about celebration and joy (and preferably a surprise party with a keg of Red Hook and a peeled shrimp tray). Instead, the impending anniversary is cause for dread, melancholia and a Schopenhauer-style meditation on why it’s fun to count liver spots.

Oh, I know, I know: occasionally, the aging are good about making light of the situation. Gallows humor, if you will. For example, you’ll see and hear: 

1. “I’m not having any more birthdays.” (Rueful grin.)

2. “I’m 39 this year. Every birthday from here on out is 39!” (Clever chortle from someone for whom “39” is several years in the rearview mirror.)

3. “Hey, look! A bouquet of black roses!” (Attempt at huge, “I’m a good sport” grin that more accurately resembles the frozen rictus you’d see in an iced bin of fresh-caught carp.)

Well, here’s the deal. I’m now officially “old” but I still look forward to birthdays — even the one that draws nigh like a cloaked spectre wielding a sharp gardening tool.

Why do I still like birthdays? Presents!

Presents make everything all better!

But wait a minute. Now that I reflect on it, I’m starting to feel a little paranoid. In recent years, the birthday gifts from friends and loved ones seem to be taking on a bitter and ominous edge — as though to slyly and subtly prey on my deepest fears and not-so-tenderly remind me that, yes, Death is a joker. For example, here are representative offerings from my last three birthdays.

1. A box of poisonous spiders

2. A box of poisonous mushrooms

3. A detailed and grim financial analysis explaining why I’ll never be able to retire

4. An application for a job at Wendy’s

5. A 30 percent off coupon from Batesville Casket Company

6. A book on how to avoid “denture breath”

7. An REO Speedwagon eight-track

Somehow, it’s only that last one that truly strikes black fear into my immortal soul.