I recently had my birthday. For identity theft reasons, I’d rather not give the exact date, but the important thing is, I’m now 52.
(Or, as I call it, dyslexic 25.)
I figured, since there are 52 cards in a deck, it was a divine sign to head for Vegas, but my wife interpreted the numerology differently.
But among most of my peer groups, none of ‘em knew it was my birthday. Didn’t tell any of the regulars at my local pub (even though I could’ve gotten a free drink); didn’t tell anyone here at PJ Media. Just another day on the calendar.
I mean, I’m a grownup. Don’t you think it’s kinda-sorta self-indulgent when grownups make a big deal about their birthdays?
‘Cause we all (scans the room nervously) know grownups who do.
But I’m also not anti-birthday. I don’t dread it — or throw eye-daggers at well-wishers, or anything. It is what it is.
Sometimes, I’ll take a moment to soak in the milestone and reflect on my life journey. Birthdays are a useful measuring stick.
There’s value in periodic self-reflection.
When I was a little kid, birthdays were incredibly important: Presents! Cake! Ice Cream! Presents! Friends! Presents!
(Did I mention presents?)
Plus, kids are awarded new privileges as they get older. You’re allowed to stay up late(r) and watch super-cool movies with lots of swearing. Getting a license at 16 was huge, of course, but birthdays were bigger than that.
‘Cause when you’re a little kid, grownups would justify their “No!” by telling you, “You’re not old enough.”
Thus, getting older was a passport to freedom: You LOVED your birthday! You COULDN’T WAIT for your birthday!
Turning 21 was a big deal for many Americans. It was for me. (From what I remember, I had a good time.) I think that was the last birthday that really got me excited.
‘Cause after turning 21?
I pretty much lost interest in birthdays.
The last one I gave any significant thought to was when I turned 50. That one felt important.
There’s something unsettling about officially rounding up to 100.
So, on my 50th, I reflected long and hard over lost friendships, squandered opportunities, and time that’s lost forever. I thought about all the great friends I’ve had — and how so few of those relationships had survived. I got into my own head and bummed myself out.
It ended up being one of my saddest birthdays.
But my kids’ birthdays? I still get super-excited, because I remember how special my birthday felt for me. When their faces light up, I can see their birthdays through their eyes.
Our family’s birthday traditions are straightforward:
- You need to call/text/see the person ON THAT DAY and wish ‘em a happy birthday. Tardiness isn’t accepted.
- The birthday boy/girl gets to pick where we go out to eat — or, if he/she prefers to stay home, whatever homecooked meal they want.
- They also claim ownership of the birthday weekend, so if there’s somewhere they’d like to go, see, or do (within reason), we try to make it happen.
- Cards, cake, and candles are mandatory, with the birthday boy/girl choosing the kind of cake. (Smart kids choose ice cream cake.)
- After we all sing the Happy Birthday song, my wife sings Lang Zal Ze Leven (it’s a Dutch thing).
And age-appropriate gifts, of course. Gotta have gifts.
My wife doesn’t care about her own birthday at all. (Really: It’s not a trick. ‘Cause I was suspicious, too.) But we still follow all the traditions for her, except we warble our way through Lang Zal Leven without her lyrical leadership.
Her birthday’s in May. And so is Mother’s Day. Along with our anniversary. That’s a LOT of gifts for one month — and we’ve been together since 1999.
After all these years, I’m out of ideas!
My kids still let me make a big deal out of their birthdays, but I’m starting to get pushback. (To be fair, they’re now 19 and 17.) I still get a kick out of making ‘em feel like a king for a day, but I can tell we’re running out of runway.
Soon, it’ll just be another day for them, too. Soon, all the birthday magic will be gone forever.
And maybe that’s the saddest birthday realization of them all: Not that we’re getting older. We can handle getting older. Like they say, it’s better than the alternative.
It’s running out of magic.
