I can tell that my birthday this month is a significant one. Most significant birthdays end in zero. In more ways than one as we get older. But this one seems laden not with the whispered delights of youth, but Prufrockian reminders as subtle as a hearse.
Birthdays ending in zero have always been a sort of benchmark, a debarkation of sorts.
10 just meant I was eligible to play in the majors in Little League and that I got a bigger bike. Not insignificant events at that point, but not destiny-shaping. I found out I needed glasses. I had a chameleon for a pet which was the definition of unrequited love.
20 was a little rougher because I was out of high school but not old enough to go to bars or stay out really late if I felt like it. I was in college, working, studying and to my recollection, no great privileges were bestowed on me. I could no longer wear Madras shirts in public. I never wore socks. I drove a red Volkswagen. It had no heater. My feet were always cold. Don't ask.
30 was indeed significant because I was leaving behind the tattered decade of college, the first job, massive hangovers, the last period in which I suffered no aches, pains or disabilities, had boundless energy and a soul not yet crushed by reality. I wore slacks and a shirt and occasionally a tie. I had wing tips. I had to wear socks. I bought my first brand new car, a Chevy Citation. I did not always make good choices.
40 was the magic number, as it is for all men. 40 stony gray steps to the grave. I began to worry about it when I turned 39. As the clock ticked down I felt like I was on a massive cruise ship, waving good-bye to everyone on the pier as I sailed off. The ones on the pier were young and vibrant like I used to be. The people on the cruise were old and used up. I was a father but couldn't find the manual on how to do a good job. I had a 4-door sedan because we could put the baby seat in the back a lot easier. I had compromised but pretended like it was the car I wanted.
50, well, my friend, you're getting serious now. I noticed some gray hair and the doctor said I had arthritis in my hip. I am living Mickey Mantle's quote "If I knew I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself." Young people who have a lot of enthusiasm irritate me. I have a larger car because it rides nice and the stereo is good. I drive slow sometimes and occasionally forget my blinker is still on.
Let's talk 60+. Everything hurts and nothings works. I get daily mailings from AARP about buying life insurance and how to apply for Medicare and which supplemental policy is best. I can handle that. But then I get solicitations for nursing home insurance. Really? Me? Wasn't I just 25 years old a couple of weeks ago? Oh, and something with a return address AHC. American Honda Company? No, the American Hearing Aid Company. Having trouble hearing what people are saying? No, I'm just ignoring them, thank you. Coupons and ads for denture adhesive, toupees, corrective shoes, canes, cataract surgery, adult diapers, erectile dysfunction medicine (all dressed up and nowhere to go), and burial vaults have peppered my mailbox over the past few weeks. And turning 60 wasn't enough. I have to repeat the indignity yearly.
There must be some mistake. As a high school friend told me recently, "Looking in, 60. Looking out, 25." Meaning people looking at him saw a 60-year-old man, but looking out, he was still 25.
So we've tipped into April, the black month that bears the anniversary of my birth like a terrible sadness it must endure. Near the end of the month, on a moonless and malignant night, you will hear a long, low wail, like the hounds of hell have been unleashed on the land and the souls of the damned are screaming for mercy. Dogs will form into packs and blood will drip from the walls. The wind will howl and rain will beat pitilessly upon the land. At that moment, I will have crossed over and officially become an old person.
Where's my discount?
Birthdays ending in zero have always been a sort of benchmark, a debarkation of sorts.
10 just meant I was eligible to play in the majors in Little League and that I got a bigger bike. Not insignificant events at that point, but not destiny-shaping. I found out I needed glasses. I had a chameleon for a pet which was the definition of unrequited love.
20 was a little rougher because I was out of high school but not old enough to go to bars or stay out really late if I felt like it. I was in college, working, studying and to my recollection, no great privileges were bestowed on me. I could no longer wear Madras shirts in public. I never wore socks. I drove a red Volkswagen. It had no heater. My feet were always cold. Don't ask.
30 was indeed significant because I was leaving behind the tattered decade of college, the first job, massive hangovers, the last period in which I suffered no aches, pains or disabilities, had boundless energy and a soul not yet crushed by reality. I wore slacks and a shirt and occasionally a tie. I had wing tips. I had to wear socks. I bought my first brand new car, a Chevy Citation. I did not always make good choices.
40 was the magic number, as it is for all men. 40 stony gray steps to the grave. I began to worry about it when I turned 39. As the clock ticked down I felt like I was on a massive cruise ship, waving good-bye to everyone on the pier as I sailed off. The ones on the pier were young and vibrant like I used to be. The people on the cruise were old and used up. I was a father but couldn't find the manual on how to do a good job. I had a 4-door sedan because we could put the baby seat in the back a lot easier. I had compromised but pretended like it was the car I wanted.
50, well, my friend, you're getting serious now. I noticed some gray hair and the doctor said I had arthritis in my hip. I am living Mickey Mantle's quote "If I knew I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself." Young people who have a lot of enthusiasm irritate me. I have a larger car because it rides nice and the stereo is good. I drive slow sometimes and occasionally forget my blinker is still on.
Let's talk 60+. Everything hurts and nothings works. I get daily mailings from AARP about buying life insurance and how to apply for Medicare and which supplemental policy is best. I can handle that. But then I get solicitations for nursing home insurance. Really? Me? Wasn't I just 25 years old a couple of weeks ago? Oh, and something with a return address AHC. American Honda Company? No, the American Hearing Aid Company. Having trouble hearing what people are saying? No, I'm just ignoring them, thank you. Coupons and ads for denture adhesive, toupees, corrective shoes, canes, cataract surgery, adult diapers, erectile dysfunction medicine (all dressed up and nowhere to go), and burial vaults have peppered my mailbox over the past few weeks. And turning 60 wasn't enough. I have to repeat the indignity yearly.
There must be some mistake. As a high school friend told me recently, "Looking in, 60. Looking out, 25." Meaning people looking at him saw a 60-year-old man, but looking out, he was still 25.
So we've tipped into April, the black month that bears the anniversary of my birth like a terrible sadness it must endure. Near the end of the month, on a moonless and malignant night, you will hear a long, low wail, like the hounds of hell have been unleashed on the land and the souls of the damned are screaming for mercy. Dogs will form into packs and blood will drip from the walls. The wind will howl and rain will beat pitilessly upon the land. At that moment, I will have crossed over and officially become an old person.
Where's my discount?
