guff

Conventional milestones

Ok, as a rule I don’t celebrate birthdays.

It’s been a personal point to avoid activities intended to recognize my emergence from the womb. At least it has since turning an imaginary one-hundred and thirty-four (don’t ask). But in the bright, overly revealing light of reality, I guess marking the occasional one is not a bad idea, especially one that provides mathematical balance, or roll-over to that first number on the life-o-meter, or whatever goofy analogy works for you.

Ten was easy. Ten was a cakewalk—with ice cream, and presents. There were friends sitting about a table staring intently into candles formed into the shapes of the arabic numerals for one and zero, soaking in the alchemical, wish-fulfilling flame, brimming with anticipation (or wistful remembrance) of their own ten. When I hit the big 1 - 0, I was all over it. Ten was my bitch.

However, I admit I didn’t quite know what it was supposed to mean to reach the age of twenty, almost an adult, but not one. Not really. And then, before I knew it, there was thirty, all dressed up in a suit and tie, and suddenly I was too much of an adult for my own good. That took a while for me to get used to, but I did. I’m not really sure how it happens, but it happens. You get used to it. Damned Passage of Time. And now, once again, I’ve hit another adult birthday milestone. I’m half-way to…something.

So welcome, forty. 40. 4*10. The Big 4 - 0. Believe it or not, I’ve been expecting you. Beeyotch.