I turned 36 on April 16th. It’s not really a milestone age. I guess I’m past the halfway point to 70, but according to the googling I just did, I can expect to live until 76.5. So in many ways, this birthday was meaningless.
My wife and I have this inside joke about how my birthday is always terrible. Despite her best efforts, something seems to inevitably go wrong (I’m looking at you COVID). It was sort-of-funny for a while, but last year it stopped being funny. My 35th birthday was solid, but I was just over the humor of things not going well on the day that was supposed to be my day. Adults aren’t supposed to like their birthdays. We’re supposed to shrug it off and say, “oh thanks” when someone wishes you a “Happy Birthday.” We like to pretend that we are so humble and not in the least self-absorbed—and we show this by pretending we don’t care about the day every one else is supposed to care about us. Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, like the way my wife hates Teacher Appreciation week because she always ends up feeling less than appreciated. If we pretend we don’t care, we don’t get disappointed when other people care less than we think they should. But we do care. Only sociopaths don’t care.
My family did a great job this year. They do a great job every year. And nothing seemed to go wrong. And when my brother made an AI emo song with the help of my nephew and niece, I felt seen. It’s great to have others see you. Especially when the thing they see is a jackalope that plays drums and likes hockey.
