Today commemorates X’s 61st trip around the sun.
I would like to say that on the outside, I say “no big deal” or “it’s just another day”….it’s really not, is it?
When we were kids, time went by soooo slooow at times; especially when we got punished sitting on the porch, or “go to your room for one hour” seemed like a decade. We were all there.
We send our own kids to ‘time out’ and cannot figure out why they are constantly on the move while serving their sentence. Time passing.
I don’t know what the magic number was but each year now passes by now zipsbyinaninstant.⇒⇒⇒⇒⇒⇒⇒⇒⇒!
When I was a kid in the sixties, my gramma took care of me and my brothers for a few summers while my mom continued her education at OSU.
Gramma had her own rule about birthdays, and those rules stuck with us even today, the main one being that the birthday boy (got no sisters) did not have to do any chores on said birthday….and for some reason, there were always chores…you know, the tedious ones like take out the trash (always interrupted Captain Kangaroo), dust mop the floors (usually got a reward for that one), help with the dishes (’twas a daily chore and we never got out of that one ((‘ceptin’ birthday))), pick up our room (it took me thirty years to figure out that if I put my stuff in the dirty clothes, I wouldn’t trip over them on the floor), clean the bathroom, c’mon man, it’s summer. The ‘no chore day’ was eagerly anticipated, then ‘poof!’ it was gone for another year. Gramma was the only adult that enforced that one, and she was gone in the summer of ’69. My dad did not agree with the no chore day….ever.
We learned the concept of “Golden Birthday”, being that the day of the month one’s birthday fell, was the “Golden Birthday”…mine is the 12th, so when I was twelve, that was my “Golden Birthday”.
For our Golden Birthday, we got nothing extra for it except to realize that it was the only one we would ever get.
As far as I don’t care any more about birthdays, it’s true, but for selfish reasons.
Who of us would admit that a birthday reminds us of how old we really are?
Lt Commander Data once said “I don’t understand human’s preoccupation with birthdays, a day they could not possible remember.”
So true. For many of us, our folks brought out the party supplies and gave us birthday parties until we were old enough to really know how to party. And that’s how it goes for many years.
“Hey X! Happy Birthday! Whatcha gonna do today?”
Are you kiddin?
For years the answer was something to the effect of “rolling some esmeraldas, grabbing some beers, and heading to the beach!”
When I was a kid, we lived not far from the city swimming pool, and my brother and neighbor kids would gang up and head down in the summer afternoons, and for ten cents, spend several hours swimming.
When I turned twelve, it then went up to fifteen cents. A price I was happy to pay, glad to have reached such a milestone.
Then going to the theatre was different, as it went from a quarter to fifty cents, turning twelve. Hmmm, maybe this growing older ain’t such a good thing after all.
Then, we get responsible and get jobs that require our presence even on our birthdays. Some places I have worked allowed us to take off our birthday, but it had to be on our birthday…no substitutions or “I’ll tack it on to my Christmas vacation” nope.
Sometimes, one has to be careful about letting folks know when one’s birthday is at the office. One of my former bosses got a surprise stripper on his birthday. The lonely middle aged woman that did it, announced over the intercom to come to the front of store.
The stripper was ugly and old. I think we were all relieved when we realized she was not stripping past her too small bikini.
The boss kept a smile the whole time, but I knew that inside he was screaming.
In our family, we have always had two members with the same birthday. Myself and a cousin, who is now gone, and my brother and Uncle Doc who is now gone, but my other brother had a daughter with my brother’s birthday. Check around your family. You may be surprised at the statistics.
I don’t remember many of my birthdays. I remember my fiftieth; my brother gave me a fifty dollar bill.
I remember my fifth birthday. I cried until I got to go outside and shoot my bow and arrow. You remember, the kind with the suction cups?
In ’95, for Father’s Day I was given my first son. Best Father’s Day gift ever.
The rest of my birthdays are just another day with cake and extra beers; maybe bourbon in the later years, and finally, scotch.
I stopped for a moment today and thought about what I do have: and suddenly, life ain’t so bad.