B-day B-log

Hey there, bloggy. Look at that – another two weeks of neglect. If I don’t watch it, you’re going to suffer the same terrible fate as every houseplant I’ve ever owned, not to mention Fido’s one through seven. Rest in peace, you brave little guys – I hope you’re fetching slippers for God now.

The dogs, I mean. Not the plants. Although you have to admit, that would be pretty cool.

So here we are in that month of cheer, togetherness and goodwill toward men, all of it thanks to the birthday of a little boy who was born in a barn. That’s right – yours truly.* “But why,” you may ask, “are we only finding out about this two days after birthday proper?” Well the answer is deceptively simple: this was the first year in living memory that I had no desire to celebrate getting older. And that’s saying a lot for a guy who was raised to believe that birthday parties were Christmas, New Year’s and Prime Minister’s Day (like President’s Day, only with a less firecracker-related fatalities) all rolled into one. In fact, at my elementary school, the words “you’re not invited to my birthday party” were a social death sentence. For me and my friends, a birthday party – any birthday party – was the event of the season. All four seasons, as a matter of fact, since birthdays come but once a year. Except for the kids whose parents were divorced, at any rate.

So why was this year any different? Could it be fear of growing old? Of the gathering darkness? Of the fact that social security will be pretty much destroyed by the time I arrive on the shores of that distant land known as “Old Ageia” (which is like Pangaea, only older)? No, dear reader, it’s because this year I came to realize that time has, in a way, lost its grip. Take, for instance, something that happened a few weeks ago, when I was out for drinks with a particularly stunning young lady. When she asked the seemingly benign question “How old are you?”, I managed to utter “I’m twenty…” right before I falling into the longest pause I’ve ever uttered. Or not uttered, as the case may be. Kind of a grey area there. Regardless, I somehow coaxed myself out of my standing coma to finish with “…seven. Yup, that’s me – twenty-seven if I’m a day.”

Well…now I’m twenty-seven. But way back then, I was only twenty-six. And while this may seem like a minor slip-up, to me it signaled that my age had officially managed to lose the relevance it once had. I realized that my landmark years – sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-five – were well and truly behind me. In essence, milestones behind, kidney stones ahead. Although that was a revelation in and of itself, my mind truly reeled at the fact that I’d apparently reached the age where my subconscious decided, “Yup…about time to stop counting. Maybe redirect that brain power on over to making this dude talk in his sleep.”

After the two full days it took me to carbon date myself, I confessed to the same girl that I had actually forgotten how old I was. She chalked it up as old age, which I chalked up as both charming and eerily accurate. So I let my birthday pass with relative quiet, heading home after a long day at work to find Bill, Andy and Christina waiting with dinner, cupcakes and birthday presents. And honestly? This old man couldn’t have been happier.

I guess the moral of the story is that even though I’ve stopped counting, it’s nice to know I have people who still are.

* Canada’s healthcare system, universal as though it may be, involves a disturbing amount of farmland and machinery.