They say — that shadowy cabal of anonymous proverb quoters which goes by the name “they” — that after a certain age, you no longer feel older on your birthday, but on the birthdays of your children.
Well, I don’t have any children — probably good news not only for me but for any theoretical spawn I might propagate — but I do have three nieces, now, and with middle girl Miriam turning 1 three days after my own birthday, I’ll soon be able to test if it has the same effect.
Mine, however, does come first, and it is, in fact, today, Sunday, Feb. 3.
As so often happens these days when my birthday falls on a Sunday, I get to share my natal day with the Super Bowl, which means I can pretend all the nachos and wings are in honor of me rather than the game of pigskin on the television.
I will be — pause for disgusted laughter from all my older readers — 35 this year, an age that once seemed nigh impossible and now just seems rather pedestrian. Aside from being ever closer to my culturally mandated midlife crisis, another year on my age just doesn’t bring any excitement anymore.
Nevertheless, exciting or not, this is my birthday, and I will enjoy all the cake and presents and free meals I can cadge from friends and family for as along as I can.
And then I’ll sit down in front of the Super Bowl, hoping the game can actually manage to be more interesting than the commercials for once, and most of all hope I can get a Patriots loss for my birthday to make the day truly memorable.
And then on Wednesday, when Miriam celebrates her own anniversary of terrestrial existence, I can check and see if her birthday inspires any feelings of aging or obsolescence in my heart.
I’m thinking not. Nowadays, I only feel old when I reference some pop culture artifact in front of my co-workers and realize they’re all too young to know what I’m talking about.
Seems the best way to determine one’s ever-closer proximity to the grave is to find out how many people around you know the names of all the ThunderCats.