Birthdays And Sh*t

     So, it's my birthday. First, let me say thanks to the dozens of friends I have who took time out of their busy lives to type me a greeting on Facebook. I pray you get those seven seconds back somewhere today. Having said that, I will confess that, at my current age (47), my feelings about birthdays now run more toward Patton Oswalt's view of them. My point is, they just ain't that important to me anymore.

     Before you think I'm getting all depressed-middle-agey on you, let me explain. When you are a little kid, the birthday is the first memory you have in terms of a ritual that is centered around you. Family and friends celebrate the very fact that you exist. They bring presents. There is cake and ice cream. There is the crazy uncle who gets drunk and winds up in the pasture dry-humping the cow. We all have those great memories. What birthdays do for little kids is affirm to them that, yes, it's a good thing you're in the world. The rest of us are are very happy about that. 

     As we get older, though, one hopes that each of us begins to develop into a human being that is comfortable in their own skin and, over time, requires that particular affirmation less and less. Birthdays and birthday parties can still be fun (and we will continue to invite the crazy uncle, who's been sober for years now but still might go out into the pasture to dry-hump the cow), but we don't need the attention so much. I'm always a little wary of people who make such a big deal out of their own birthdays. I always wonder what's missing in them that they try very hard to recreate the kind of experience they had as children (except this time with booze). Don't get me wrong; I love a good party. It's just that some adult birthday celebrations feel... desperate to me. Am I making sense?

   

I asked for a guitar cake. I got a fucking ukulele.

     I remember some birthday parties as a kid with great fondness. The year I had my party at the Rainbow Roller Rink was awesome, mostly because all the cute girls I invited actually showed up. But then there was the year my mom could only afford a party for me at McDonald's, and I was past the age of thinking that was a good idea, and we did it, anyway. Oh, and I should probably point out that my sister, who is four years younger than me, has the exact same birthday as me. No shit. So for years we had to "share" a party, and by "share" I mean "hate each other's guts because we didn't want to have just one party." Every little kid should have their own party. 

     But today? My daughter wants to take me to dinner. (Please don't let it be Chick-Fil-A. Don't misunderstand, I looooove Chick-Fil-A, but it's my birthday and Chick-Fil-A doesn't serve booze, and they have frowned at my repeated attempts to smuggle in my own vodka to add to their delicious Sweet Tea.) She wants to celebrate the fact that I exist, and that's plenty for me. There will be no pinning the tail on the donkey, no couple's skate, no ukulele cake. And I'm okay with that. I'm okay letting go of that ritual, because I'm (mostly) comfortable with who I am.

     I do, however, miss my crazy uncle. And his cow-humping antics.