Today is my nephew Gus’ birthday. My gift to him is the focus of a post in this blog that he doesn’t even read. It’s the thought that counts, so it should be readily apparent to him now not to count on much thought when it comes to me.
Birthdays are odd things (except every other year when they’re even). When I was young I was completely gung-ho for this yearly ritual, but I think that enthusiasm passed with my 25th birthday. At that age, I was finally able to rent a car on my own, which is basically the last age restriction you have to conquer. Sure, there’s being electable as President at 35, or collecting Social Security at 62, but neither of those seem likely bets when I reach that age. Professor Hobo basically precludes me from the former, and an overabundance of Baby Boomers from the latter. There’s always 100 and getting on the Today Show, but if I’m still alive then I hope it’ll be because I have better things to do than watch the Today Show.
My wife loves her birthday. She claims it’s her favorite holiday. No, not the day our country gained its independence. Not the day we celebrate that sneaky blanket prank we pulled on the Indians. Not the day that marks the birth of our lord and savior. And she’s not alone. Her sister’s favorite holiday is her own birthday, as well. Right now the women reading this are nodding in agreement, while the men are puzzled about when we’re going to get back to dirty cat cleaning jokes.
My birthday is officially (in case there was doubt) less than a month away at this point. Let’s go ahead and clear the air here and now—I don’t need any gifts. Keep your fabulous DVD box sets and yachts for yourself this year. Instead, for one day in early October, pretend like you have a new favorite holiday. Maybe it’ll bring back the magic for me.