Recently, my niece reported that her husband was having a crisis:
he was turning 40.
She lamented that he was pretty much acting like a baby.
I sided with the husband. Having birthdays is a big deal.
After all, if you are not having any more birthdays, then nothing really matters. Think about that.
Reaching a particular age can be a rite of passage or inclusion into the AARP mailing list.
However, the passing of age can be traumatic. It was for me.
Each decade except for number 2, was a monumental tearjerker.
At ten years old, I got a bad haircut from my Mother, wore black cat-eye glasses and needed braces. I have the school picture to prove it, but you will never see it.
At twenty, I got contacts; my teeth were straight and had too much fun in college.
At thirty, my family asked, “Why aren’t you married?” We won"t go into that.
At forty, I went shopping. I shopped and cried so long that when I got home, I almost missed my surprise birthday party. My red swollen eyes matched the party hat.
At fifty, I ignored the day, month and year. Then I noticed that gravity became my worst enemy; everything began to droop or fall apart.
I hated Isaac Newton, and still do.
At sixty… I haven’t made it that far.
Today is my birthday. My age is the same as a speed limit. Whenever I see one of those signs, it will be a constant reminder for the whole year. Bummer.
I hope to count more birthdays, but I shall refuse to remember the age.
After all, age represents a large, sequential, obnoxious number.
I hope you have an "ageless" day. Pick up a crayon and color outside the lines; that's what I'm going to do.
Send me a card. Email will do fine at email@example.com