Once a year I’m plagued by the creeping persistence of Time. I do my best to combat him. I once tried to put him in a tiny box buried deep in the yard covered in dung, but he escaped and now I smell him coming... Still, I do what I can. I sleep regularly and often, attempt to eat properly, exercise persistently and I refrain from the obvious things that make people look prematurely old, like smoking, sunbathing and working in Alaskan canneries. I moisturize. While this is further proof I’m gay, it’s also a conduit to wondrous remarks like, “Really? You’re 38? I would have thought 29!” This puts a smile on my face until I realize that one day they might just as easily state, “Really? You’re 68? I would have thought 59!” Still, it beats being 98 and looking 89. Side note: Not having kids seems to help with all the aforementioned skills. If you have kids, feel free to keep them but know that they are the ones who make 39 look like 39. Or 44. (gasp!)
I love when other people have birthdays, not because of the inherent schadenfreude or the chance to eat cake, but because it gives me a moment to honor and celebrate the birth of the great beings I call my friends and loved ones. It’s a good excuse for sending a Facie (facebook friend) a note letting her know I care, I’m excited she continues to exist and thrive, and with each passing year there’s hope we can one day reunite and drink a box of wine or spray paint a rival school’s pump house like the old days. Birthdays are the spillway to reminiscences and introspection and in moderation, perhaps 1/365th of the time, this can be glorious.
But, unfortunately, birthdays mark time and the marked time corresponds to my ever-increasing age. This appears to be the evil lurking purpose. I fully enjoy the beneficial attention that surrounds my birthday, but just like Ambien or Percocet I have great difficulty with the nefarious side effects. Each birthday brings even more candles to delicious cakes I now fear may trigger adult-onset diabetes. A higher age number means I have a lowered necessary heart rate to achieve “cardio level” on my treadmill, and now I get higher BMI readings on my scale. I have more frequent thoughts about the continued viability of my prostate and colon. I have weaker ankles, greyer hairs (and in weirder places) and the inability to remember plot lines from last season’s television shows. It's humbling. Why can’t I keep the abs I had when I was 28? Why can’t I keep the vision I had when I was 24? Why can’t I keep the credit score I had when I was 20?
Everyone wants birthdays but no one wants to consider the brutality of the aging process. While I’ve truly loved every age I’ve ever been (except eleven—that was a rocky year) it’s still tough to consider that I’m on the cusp of the cusp of 40 which is practically 50 which is nearly 60 which is practically 110. When my grandmother turned 80 we had a conversation and she confided that she still isn’t sure what she wants to be when she grows up. She’s more-or-less ruled out ballerina. That sucks.
While I would likely loathe a return to any prior age, I harbor an equal aversion to attaining the numeric constructs of my future ages. Of course, sometimes I get scared I might not reach those ages, so I tacitly repeat to myself, on my birthday meditation at 12:36am every August 2nd, my ninth and tenth mantras: मैं खुला रहा हूँ. मैं यहाँ हूँ (I Am Open, I am Here). Every year brings new possibilities, opportunities, vistas, vision and treasures. And yes, every year also takes me closer to my driver’s license expiration date, but I’m prepared to overlook the petty negatives—on the first day.
Today I am 39. There, I said it. I’m not sure I feel better for saying it, but considering the alternative, I shall remain quietly jubilant and thankful. Now where's my fucking cake?
PS: A decided advantage to aging is more scratch-off lottery tickets in the envelope from thoughtful friends [hint, hint].
I love when other people have birthdays, not because of the inherent schadenfreude or the chance to eat cake, but because it gives me a moment to honor and celebrate the birth of the great beings I call my friends and loved ones. It’s a good excuse for sending a Facie (facebook friend) a note letting her know I care, I’m excited she continues to exist and thrive, and with each passing year there’s hope we can one day reunite and drink a box of wine or spray paint a rival school’s pump house like the old days. Birthdays are the spillway to reminiscences and introspection and in moderation, perhaps 1/365th of the time, this can be glorious.
But, unfortunately, birthdays mark time and the marked time corresponds to my ever-increasing age. This appears to be the evil lurking purpose. I fully enjoy the beneficial attention that surrounds my birthday, but just like Ambien or Percocet I have great difficulty with the nefarious side effects. Each birthday brings even more candles to delicious cakes I now fear may trigger adult-onset diabetes. A higher age number means I have a lowered necessary heart rate to achieve “cardio level” on my treadmill, and now I get higher BMI readings on my scale. I have more frequent thoughts about the continued viability of my prostate and colon. I have weaker ankles, greyer hairs (and in weirder places) and the inability to remember plot lines from last season’s television shows. It's humbling. Why can’t I keep the abs I had when I was 28? Why can’t I keep the vision I had when I was 24? Why can’t I keep the credit score I had when I was 20?
Everyone wants birthdays but no one wants to consider the brutality of the aging process. While I’ve truly loved every age I’ve ever been (except eleven—that was a rocky year) it’s still tough to consider that I’m on the cusp of the cusp of 40 which is practically 50 which is nearly 60 which is practically 110. When my grandmother turned 80 we had a conversation and she confided that she still isn’t sure what she wants to be when she grows up. She’s more-or-less ruled out ballerina. That sucks.
While I would likely loathe a return to any prior age, I harbor an equal aversion to attaining the numeric constructs of my future ages. Of course, sometimes I get scared I might not reach those ages, so I tacitly repeat to myself, on my birthday meditation at 12:36am every August 2nd, my ninth and tenth mantras: मैं खुला रहा हूँ. मैं यहाँ हूँ (I Am Open, I am Here). Every year brings new possibilities, opportunities, vistas, vision and treasures. And yes, every year also takes me closer to my driver’s license expiration date, but I’m prepared to overlook the petty negatives—on the first day.
Today I am 39. There, I said it. I’m not sure I feel better for saying it, but considering the alternative, I shall remain quietly jubilant and thankful. Now where's my fucking cake?
PS: A decided advantage to aging is more scratch-off lottery tickets in the envelope from thoughtful friends [hint, hint].
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