We all know adults who belittle birthdays. At a certain point, they say, older is not better. And being the birthday boy or girl is embarrassing in all kinds of ways: Being the center of attention. Having to thank people for gifts they don’t want and will never use. Having to be funny and humble and wise and grateful if called upon to make remarks.
Birthday parties are nice for kids, but grownups? Cone-shaped party hats with elastic chin straps? Really? Gloppy icing on sugary cake? The making of wishes, the silly song — sung badly — the blowing out of candles, the applause?
Spare them.
I had a birthday over the weekend. Not a biggie. Just another milepost on the road to oblivion. But I made a big deal out of it, like I always do, gathering in the park with friends to eat bagels and swat baseballs.
There were no party hats and a breeze prevented the lighting of candles, but I pretended to snuff them with my fingertips and everybody sang the song and Samar’s cake was neither gloppy nor sugary and was reason enough to celebrate the day.
My feelings about birthdays are like my feelings about crossword puzzles. Just as solving the crossword makes me feel smart every morning, however much I stumble through the rest of the day, celebrating my birthday makes me feel special once a year, whatever humbling experiences the other 364 days have in store for me.
My feelings about birthdays are also like my feelings about playing with my granddaughters: I get to act like a kid. During my visits with Elleka (4), Penelope (5) and Beatrice (2) this summer, I was sillier than I’d been in 25 years – when my own kids were little, although people who know me well might argue that I’m pretty silly much of the time.
Birthday parties are silly and none of us is nearly silly enough.
The other thing that struck me about my birthday festivities is that they weren’t just an opportunity for my friends to celebrate me but for me to celebrate them – and for all of us to celebrate each other.
I used to think I’d retire to some beautiful place on the water. I wanted a house with a view of a harbor and I wanted to be able to walk from my house to the waterfront, where there would be boats to look at, a beach to walk on, a coffee shop where I could read the paper in the morning, and a pub where I could nurse a beverage in the afternoon.
Missing from this picture were companions. I suppose if I moved to a place where I didn’t know a soul, I’d soon acquire a coffee- and beer-drinking buddy or two, but it now seems crazy to leave behind all the buddies I already have. As my wise wife once told me, you can’t make new old friends.
So now that I could move to some beautiful place on the water – that is, if I were ready to retire, which I’m not, and if I could afford it, which I can’t – I no longer want to. If there’s one positive that came out of the isolation of the COVID years, it’s a deeper appreciation of human connection.
Even my students feel it, if I’m reading the room right. As “awkward” as face-to-face interaction can be, it beats spending all your time in some crappy apartment staring at a screen.
Many of us year-rounders, meanwhile, damn landlocked State College with faint praise: It’s no Garden of Eden but at least it’s affordable. At least we can breathe the air. At least we don’t have to keep a go bag by the front door in case of fire or flood. At least we aren’t discomfited (ashamed/afraid) by people living in tents. At least we aren’t spending chunks of our days sitting in traffic…
Lately, I detect a shift in attitude, from thinking State College is a good place to live because it has fewer negatives than other places, to appreciating that we have lovely lives here. And the loveliest part is being part of a community.
I didn’t speechify at my birthday bash, but if I had, I would have said something like this:
As most of you know, four of our five children and all three of our grandchildren (with a fourth on the way this fall) live out West so we’ve always assumed that when we retire, we would split for the coast ourselves.
Well, we’ve now hit the age when we can walk away whenever we’re ready, but more and more, we’re thinking we might just stay put because we’d miss this – not this gathering for my birthday, but gathering like this throughout the year, for occasions great and small.
On the other hand, I’d like to be there for Penelope’s and Beatrice’s and Elleka’s and the impending first grandson’s birthday parties wearing a silly hat, eating gloppy cake.
