Twenty-Three: A Birthday Carol

I’ve always hated having a birthday the same month of Christmas. The days are at a safe distance, but it doesn’t prevent the inevitable combo gift. Maybe that’s bratty, but I’m of the opinion that although it’s better to give than to receive, it’s more fun to get shit. This is why we spare children and the shitty paper dolls they give us. (Or this is why my father spared me and the shitty paper Batmen I’d give him year after year…as a combo gift.)

 

Remember when you turned 23? No? Well, the only reason I remember is because I’ve been 23 for a little over a week. My birthday is the tenth of December.

 

Now, I’m usually not a birthday person. I feel like being the guy who makes a big fuss about his own birthday is like being the guy that also laughs at his own jokes. To avoid being that guy, I try to do the exact opposite of what I think that guy does. I took my birthday down on Facebook. I tried my best not to mention it at work as not to attract unneeded attention.

 

I downplay it. In fact, I think “downplay” isn’t a strong enough word. I pummel it into non-existence, like I would do with any other day of the week. I’ve never been super successful in the past–someone would always find out and toss me a cake, or make me dinner, or give me some dumb gift. In sophomore year I actually had a good portion of friends break into my dorm and decorate it with clown-colored construction paper. In the past, (pre-22nd Birthday), I’d always have a nice lull where even though my day had past, it would run-off for a good seven days. I was never super successful in the past.

 

Well. With mixed feelings, I’m happy to say that I did it this year. For most of it, I was pissed that I wasn’t 22 anymore. I like to measure my life in the Five for Fighting song “100 Years”… but this year isn’t in the song. What’s supposed to happen at 23? I heard once in a song I’m not crazy about that no one is supposed to like me.

 

A few people “gave alms.” I got lunch at work. My sister ended up telling people. I got the birthday texts. My mom got me a Groupon for a dinner at some wine bar (which I’m probably going with her to since it expires December 28th…any takers). My girlfriend got me a super cool artisanal watch from Japan. The alms were nice. But for the most part it was the usual dreary day in winter. There were alot of people that didn’t know, which was good. My roommates didn’t even find out.

 

I’m not a person who thinks that world owes him something, but… damn. Twenty-Three is not a particularly thrilling age. I think everyone knows that. But what this this even supposed to be about anyway? Am I supposed to be spending all of my youth before it evaporates? How long do I have before I go from 23 to every other 20-something I know? I’m aware that I am losing the energy to maintain the idealism that comes with being in my early 20s. It’s not all gone, but I’m aware that I’m on borrowed time. I work at an agency, so that’s the way it goes. One day my metabolism will fade and I will start to lose hair and I’ll start to get excited about TV more than I should and working will replace the person I thought I was. This isn’t some woe is me rant, because this is what happens to everyone, right? Soon someone else will complain about the same thing and I will react by telling them that they are just doing the old “Millennial, Navel-Gazing Shuffle.”

 

These are just some of the anxieties that crept through my machinations. For a good twenty minutes at work, I was a little upset. I wish I had a time-machine to do it right this time. People say this when they become old, but I think it’s just as bad to know that if you did things differently just a few years back, you’d be in a better place, as a better person, with a better outlook, and a better tomorrow.

 

It’s awfully easy to see things this way. But despite these thoughts, there is one thing that gives me hope for my twenties and beyond. When people asked me how old I was turning, I said “Twenty-Three.”

 

They all responded to me as if I had aged backwards. “23? 23?! ONLY 23!?!”

 

And like a corny Christmas episode of your least favorite NBC sitcom I laughed and thought to myself, “Yeah. Only 23.”

 

Basically, all you fuckers are old and I’m young. And if that’s not enough, I’ve got the desperation and imagination to stay young for at least another 30 years. Eternal youth is a frame of mind. We define youth many different ways, so I guess you all can figure out how that will turn out. I’m hope for more of a “Twilight Zone, Kick the Can” turnout…and less of a “Girls” meets “Jeff, Who Lives at Home” scenario. If the latter happens, I give my siblings the right to hunt me like the most dangerous game.

 

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