Tomorrow is my birthday. Typically, today is the day my sister and I start bitching, via text message, about how much we hate our birthdays. About how mere mortals (our husbands) can’t possibly match the glittery, over-the-top festivities thrust upon us, year after year, by our mother. About how we hate the attention, yet somehow crave more. About how birthdays (when they’re yours) always suck.

I realize (and so does my sister) that this is disgusting behavior. Somehow, we can never stop.

But I won’t bitch this year. I’m done complaining about my birthday. I’m not saying this will stick forever, but I think I can keep the vow for the next day and a half. That’s because on Sunday, I got a damn good birthday present. And a wake-up call about what matters in life.

Weeks ago, my mom started nagging about when and where we’d be celebrating the momentous occasion — the 44th birthday of her first daughter. After much eyerolling and stalling, then rescheduling and angsting over a choice that would please everyone from my father to Ray to Annabelle (Sophie’s up for a party anywhere, anytime — just like my mom) we landed on the patio at El Chorro, an old favorite that was recently renovated. The food, as Ray and I discussed on the drive over, is nothing fancy, though we joked that the people often are.

The weather was fireplace-perfect Sunday night, the sunset (see above) gorgeous, and I ordered a cocktail with muddled grapes, vodka and champagne. Hard to be grumpy.

And then something happened that took my breath away.

I had my back to the entrance, and when my father said to my mother, “Hey, look who’s here!” I thought, “Oh, ho-freaking-hum, it’s some country club friend of theirs.”

But it wasn’t. It was Muhammad Ali.

Muhammad Ali has lived in Paradise Valley (an appropriately named resort town tucked between Phoenix and Scottsdale) for a long time, and you hear often of sightings at charity events and such, but I don’t get out much, and I’ve never seen him in person.

I’m not a huge celebrity stalker. In fact, after a bad encounter with TC Boyle at a reading several years ago, I made a vow to never again approach a famous (or even quasi-famous) person I admire, for fear of being disappointed by the in-the-flesh version.

But this was different. This was Muhammad Ali. A guy who said whatever he thought and flourished anyway, because of his talent — talent that transcends even my disinterest in sports and dislike for the act of pummeling another human being.

A guy who — well, I don’t have to tell you. You know who Muhammad Ali is. But my girls didn’t. On our way out, we walked past his table and Ray asked if it was okay to say hello.

“Look, Muhammad, look at the cute kids!” his wife said, gently directing his gaze.

He reached his hand out and shook the best he could, first with Annabelle, then Sophie.

“Girls, this is the greatest athlete who ever lived,” Ray told them.

Of course we stood there awkwardly for just a moment too long, and another woman at the table told us it was time to get going. (Again, why I have a rule against talking to celebrities.) But I’m glad we did it.

Being near Ali, even briefly, was an honor. He was sharp in a blue paisley shirt and heavy gold link bracelets, his face frozen by the Parkinsons Disease that’s ravaged his nervous system. My father’s mother had early-onset Parkinsons and suffered from it for a long time, as Ali has, and oddly this elegant black man looked a lot to me like my long-departed, elegant, blonde Gommy. His hands looked just the same, the frozen, awkward fingers that couldn’t open a menu. The set of his mouth, the way he swiveled his entire body slowly to face the little girls my grandmother never met but would have loved so much.

Odd how a disease makes two people look the same, sort of the way a genetic condition like Down syndrome does.

They say Parkinsons can be caused by a sharp blow (or countless sharp blows, in Ali’s case) to the head, and family lore is that Gommy’s could have come from the nose job she got before nose jobs were popular — and perfected. Apparently the doctor used to whack you in the nose with a hammer to get things started.

Seeing Muhammad Ali — seeing that incredible person humbled by a horrible disease, humbled but still out in public, head as high as he can manage to hold it — made me realize how silly my little birthday thing is.

I am blessed with family, friends and (knock on wood) health. Oh, and a very promising looking basket from my mom, exploding with boxes from Anthropologie, covered with hot pink curly ribbon, waiting for tomorrow.

Driving home, Sophie fell asleep, and Ray pulled up a youtube video of Ali fighting for Annabelle. He told her about how Ali had refused to go to war (something I support, Ray not as much) and about what a hero he has been to so many people.

Later, I drove to Walgreens to get milk, and I turned on the 70s channel. Casey Kasem’s old show was on, counting down the hits, and Number 33 that week was “Black and White” by Three Dog Night.