Ever since turning thirty I have had this thing about my birthdays, like not wanting them to come. I have indifferences about getting older and my birthday is just another reminder of that. Maybe it's because I am happy with my life where it is. My kids are still nice to me, I am healthy, I have most of my hair left, and I don't have any unsightly nose or ear hairs to pluck. Yesterday, my wife got frustrated with me because I didn't really care if we had friends over to hang out for my birthday. She said, "I'm not mad at you; I just wish you'd be excited about your birthday instead of moping around about it. It's something to celebrate, and you're making it kind of blah."
Like 99.9% of the time, my wife is right. I have been moping around about it for five years now. I wasn't interested in everybody making a big deal out of me getting older so I just shrugged off the birthdays like they were any other day. But she is right - it is something to celebrate and I am happy to have lived another year and will hopefully have many more to grow on. So let's party!
In honor of the day my Mother birthed me into this wonderful world, September 6, 1972, I am going to write a little poem for you.
But you have to click here to read it...