Just Another Birthday

Ask pretty much anyone when they stopped believing in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny, and they’ll be able to tell you exactly how old they were when they stopped believing. Hell, some people can tell you exactly where they were, who they were with, and how the conversation went down when they realized that Santa Claus was not the guy responsible for leaving all those cool gifts under the tree.

But ask someone when they stopped celebrating their birthday, and they don’t have a good answer for you. Sure, maybe they’ll tell you that they stopped having parties at age 12, or they stopped getting presents from their relatives after 13, but no one can pin point when they stopped celebrating birthdays.

And I think that’s because some people truly stopped celebrating them at a young age, while others continue to celebrate it each and every year.

As for me, I think I stopped really making a big deal of my birthday when I was 13 or 14. By then my parents were done having parties for me, and uncles and aunts figured they were done sending presents. Now obviously I made a big deal of turning 16 and 21, but that really had little to do about my actual birthday as opposed to what new privileges I now had as a result of turning a year older.

Nowadays my birthday is simply another day in the week . . . other than a few “milestone” birthdays where my wife throws me a party.

This was not one of those years. So when it rolled around a few weeks ago (on a Sunday) I treated it like any other Sunday.

Started the day with a paddle match with some friends. My partner and I won in three sets. I thought I played quite well, but I will admit there were a few games halfway through the second set where I missed a number of forehand drives. My partner did not miss an opportunity to remind me of it when he said “Well, we were doing quite well until you started playing like Clay Whipple.” He didn’t know it was my birthday. I’m at least 60 percent sure he wouldn’t have made that snide comment had he known it was “my special day.” Okay, I’m 50 percent sure. But a good start to the day – always like a good paddle match, and winning makes it even better.

Got home and made myself a bagel sandwich and a cup of coffee. Read the sports. As many of you know – that is my usual routine – nothing different. But I would argue that all bagel sandwiches are special. And the Tribune sports page is my idea of a good time. So not a bad day so far.

Both my boys wished me a happy birthday and then argued about who said it first. I’m not sure who technically said it first, but I know my wife was a distant third in saying “Happy Birthday.”

The weather turned nasty by about noon, so I used that as an excuse to lounge around on the couch and watch TV. I found a men’s rugby 7-on-7 tournament on TV, and watched it for hours. I literally don’t understand this sport at all, but I am intrigued by it. Mostly because the men who play it are real men. From what I can tell they are the toughest men in the world. I can’t even fathom being this tough.

I mean I know I’m not a real “guy’s guy.” I don’t camp. And I mention that because I think that’s my barometer to determining whether you’re a “real guy” or not. If you can go outdoors, pitch a tent, make a fire, cook food over that fire, and wake up in one piece the next day you’re a dude.

I can’t do any of that. I don’t even own a tent. In fact come to think of it, I don’t even own a sleeping bag which means even if I did own a tent I’d have to borrow someone’s sleeping bag just to go camping, and I’m not entirely sure whether that’s even socially acceptable. Can you borrow a friend’s sleeping bag? You’re really tucked into those things. Isn’t that like borrowing someone’s underwear??

And honestly, for me, in the ranking of shelters . . . tent barely edges out no tent at all.

But there is a MAJOR DIFFERENCE between being able to do “manly” things like pitch a tent and catch a fish and start a camp fire and field dress a wound and playing 7-on-7 rugby. We’re talking about two totally different kinds of men here. Of which I’m neither. But still these rugby guys are Neanderthals. I’m really intrigued by it. So I enjoyed watching the rugby on TV, although I could do without the reminders that I’m not that tough.

Later that night my wife made one of my favorite dinners, as well as a homemade birthday cake. Even better! Last year she used a mix.

My mom joined us for dinner and cake. She gave me a card with $42 dollars in it. I took the $42 dollars. I don’t know why. Should I have given it back to her? Was it meant as a joke? Hey $42 dollars buys a couple large pepperoni pizzas. A guy doesn’t turn down a couple free pizzas, does he??

After getting the boys down my wife offered to have sex with me. I took her up on the offer. Because like the pizzas . . . does a guy turn down sex?? I don’t think so.

Hey, I may not be able to do manly things like camping, and I’m certainly no rugby player, but I’m man enough to know that when someone offers you free cash and sex . . . you take ‘em.

So in the end, maybe I’m still celebrating my birthdays – and I’d have to say it was a pretty good day.