Birthday Denial

I should write this blog post next year when I turn seventy. People think that it is a significant life event. But I’ll probably write another one just like it anyway, forgetting that I wrote this one. Sixty-nine is substantial enough to warrant a post, I think. Besides, in my mind, I round off my age to the nearest multiple of ten, so I’ve been seventy for the better part of four years now. It gives me a good running start at being a septuagenarian. When I turn seventy, I can coast for another five years before I have to rev up for being eighty.

Actually, I’m pretty dubious about having birthdays at all. I’m sure it is denial. In this age where political angst has everybody branding everyone else as some denier, I guess it would be fair to call me a birthday denier. I’ve already determined that denying one’s birthday does not stop aging, but it’s a game attempt. Something like Knute Rockne’s famous halftime pep talk, “Win one for the Gipper,” led Notre Dame to victory over the Black Knights in 1928. This is just as misleading as birthday denial since Notre Dame had a losing season that year.

The whole business of measuring life in annual birthdays is at the heart of the issue. Time itself was an arbitrary development of the Big Bang anyway. The earth’s trek around the sun is indeed a cosmic reality. But do we have to measure our age with the number of times, like mice in a wheel, that we’ve circumnavigated the solar system? I suggest that we start counting our age in grandchildren. By this measure, I am only seven grandchildren old. That is so much more pleasant than years. And better yet, despite my pleading, I won’t be aging in grandchildren anymore for a while. (Children can be so unwieldy.) However, I hope the day will come when I can age a little further by measuring my age with great-grandchildren.

Even though I prefer to forget that it was my birthday, the entire Internet has conspired to remind me. I am not only capable of denying my birthday, but I’m reasonably proficient at forgetting other people’s birthdays. This is a common human trait that I counted on to help me with birthday denial. But now, the elephantine memory of computers has been harnessed to disrupt my attempts. Believe me, I fought back. After months of research, I finally figured out how to get Facebook to shut up about my birthday. I thought I was safe. Still, every used car dealership, drugstore, and news website has recently harnessed digitally driven dynamics to send me birthday wishes that I’d buy something more from them. It’s insane — not that denying one’s birthday is a mark of psychological health. But you get my drift.

So after having my pleasant ignorance of the passage of time interrupted by several rude automatic emails wishing me Happy Birthday in full-color ads about the products that will make me happy in my dotage, I sprained my finger clicking the delete button. Angry and frustrated, I did what any red-blooded American would do in my place. I decided I could buy myself a birthday present. And with a sprained finger, I needed physical help and psychological succor. I decided that a membership at the YMCA, less than two blocks from our condo, would make a wonderful birthday present.

You’d think any modern fitness facility would have equipment designed to mitigate the effects of mouse-related injuries. Alas, our YMCA only has conventional workout apparatus, but there are plenty of machines calculated to make you forget that you even want to live, let alone have a birthday. Did I mention that I hate working out almost as much as birthdays? But my doctor’s and my wife’s panicky pleas against the backdrop of my inevitable aging have compelled me to act. So on the day when many deluded people thought it was my birthday, I went to the gym. I suppose I’ll have to go again before next year.

I spent some birthday time in a traditional fitness suite, pumping iron and cardio pedaling. A glance in one of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors reminded me that going for “svelte” was probably out of the question. I’ll have to settle for “well preserved,” which is still a long way off, considering the slug that dared to appear in my reflection.

The best feature of our YMCA is that they have a lovely Basketball court. Now before everyone panics, I don’t plan to play basketball again. Basketball is a physical sport that will likely cause severe damage to old farts. No matter how many birthdays I’ve denied playing hoops is out of the question. Yet, some genuine pleasure can derive from just shooting baskets, and it’s surprisingly good exercise, especially for an aged flatulent. However, I wish they’d quit moving the basket every time I shoot.

So, I’ll be heading to the gym as the earth solemnly traipses its way around old Sol. Hopefully, I’ll be in better shape to deny that arbitrary point that some people think is my birthday. There is hope for the coming years. I’ve heard a rumor that in the latter stages of life, in the far distant future and a galaxy far, far away, a person begins to positively anticipate their birthdays again. Something like I felt when I turned twelve, so I was old enough to go hunting. In this last stage of life, each passing year is seen as a little victory evading the grim reaper. I can’t foresee this effect kicking in for me before triple digits. But who knows? I guess we’ll find out if I happen to get there. Personally, I’m just looking forward to counting great-grandkids.