Do birthdays diminish as you age? Kermet Apio, with a funny look at an age-old dilemma.
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Today is my birthday. I turn 47. And it doesn’t matter.
I don’t mean this in a “woe is me” kind of way nor am I fishing for Facebook timeline cake pics. I’m being honest. By the time you get 47 of anything it’s not as big of a deal. Have you ever said aloud “Hey, this is my 47th ________. Awesome!”? Most of the time, 47 of something is way too many. Often leads to rehab or, at the very least, apologies. Oh sure, in three years we’ll celebrate because I’ll be at a left digit rollover, but that’s mainly because ten-fingered humanoids created a binary system in between mammoth clubbings. That last joke serves only to let my Mom know that the private school education didn’t just go to fart jokes in bars.
The Chuck E Cheese band has no song for 47. The best place at Hallmark for a 47th birthday is the “blank inside” section. 47 candles simultaneously lit is the number 3 cause of forest fires. The year I was born, the pocket calculator was invented, which means that in my lifetime something was invented, became a vital tool in education and science, and now is something that everyone under 25 who was reading this just Googled to find out what the hell I’m talking about.
In your mid 40’s, birthdays don’t have to mean anything. You don’t ponder. You don’t reassess. You don’t reformulate your goals. You don’t care to look up if “reformulate” is actually a word.
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One positive aspect of this “diminished birthday” concept is acceptance. In your mid 40’s, birthdays don’t have to mean anything. You don’t ponder. You don’t reassess. You don’t reformulate your goals. You don’t care to look up if “reformulate” is actually a word. You don’t buy travel barbells or get a tattoo of a Chinese character that you think means “strength” but actually means “Round-eyed monkey.” The mid-40’s are when you buy in. It’s when you realize that there may be a slight change here and there, but ultimately you are who you are. You’re just a guy trying to pay the bills, trying to smile about something each day, and trying not to get out of bed making the sound of a grunting bear. You’re not going to change the world, but you might get a retweet.
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My kids love birthdays. Not so much that it’s specifically mine, but because sugar. My kids look at my birthday the way alcoholics look at St. Patty’s Day. It’s not so much WHAT we’re celebrating as what we’re consuming to celebrate it. They just want to devour gluteny fructose and sing “Danny Boy” over and over. Then the next day try and piece together what the hell happened. And that’s awesome. I don’t want it to be about me. I’ve known me for a long time and quite frankly, not impressed.
Yeah, it may seem like lowered expectations that watching my kids enjoy pie (Yes, I said pie. Screw cake) is enough for my birthday, but if I’m out with a bunch of friends at a bar and they start acting like idiots, I can’t just tell them to brush their teeth and go to bed. Oh, how I wish I could. Some would call it lowered expectations. I call it understanding. As the great philosopher Donald Rumsfeld once said, “You go into birthdays with the life you have, not the one you think you want.”
Yes, I say my birthday doesn’t matter, but here’s what does: Really wonderful people take time out of their day to Facebook post, email, text, or call me; My wife and kids are great people who have made me better; and I’m still around and able to write this. All in all, I’m good. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to run some errands, buy stuff to make pie, and sell some “like new” travel barbells on ebay.
Photo credit: Will Clayton/flickr
Kermet, I will be 47 tomorrow and I agree, that it doesn’t matter. Happy Birthday anyway.
CONGRATULATIONS !!!!!! (spelling in all caps is not shouting on this occasion). I’ll turn 47 later this month and it does seem anti-climactic but to what I don’t know. All the best and enjoy the pie.