I’m Older Than Yesterday. Yay?
I’ve never understood birthdays.
I turned 22 the other day. I’m often told (and I believe it) that that’s still quite young—to some, like liquor store clerks, I’m practically a baby.
But what’s the point of all the pageantry and celebration?
In grade school, we bought cake and had parties on the weekends at the movies, playing laser tag or running through shopping mall food courts like packs of wild dogs.
Gifts were extravagant; we dragged our parents along to Toys ‘R’ Us for the latest and greatest bazooka Super Soaker (with scope and Nerf gun attachment, obviously) and if not that, then a half-dozen packs from the current nerd-crack monster card game du jour.
As long as it sounded cool and made your parents go broke paying for it, you knew you’d made a good choice.
Today, I just feel weird being the centre of attention.
Sure, I’m a rather social and outgoing dude, so that may not seem in character, but besides recognizing an arbitrary marking of Earthly revolutions around a giant pile of flaming nuclear gas, I honestly don’t get what monumental thing we’ve all decided is worth celebrating here.
I’ve come to treat my birthdays reflexively, thinking about where I am going and where I’ve been, who I’ve become and what I want to be.
That being said, it’s been so goddamned cold outside I’ll take any excuse to leave my house at this point. Party on, bro.
Assistant News Editor
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