Birthdays are one of life’s enigmas. Even the word is less accurate than it could be, since it refers to the anniversary of one’s entry into the world, not to the actual entry itself. The analogy would be to celebrate one’s wedding anniversary by calling it one’s wedding day, which is, of course, absurd: one can only be born once. (I’ll leave for another day the question of how many times a person can be married.)
While “celebrating” my birthday this week, I recalled the birthday party my wife and I had for our first (and at the time only) child when he turned one. The little tyke was not yet walking or talking, but we had him all dressed up in a special sailor suit, and we’d invited a gaggle of friends, relatives and business associates to the gala feast as if achieving the exalted age of one was something altogether extraordinary.
It was, of course, more a celebration for us, his parents, than it was for our son, who knew nothing of the significance of the day and has no recollection of it today, some 28 years and eight months later.
At some point, though, birthdays become personal celebrations, probably around age three I would guess, and later (much later) they are cause for (in order) reflection, consternation and dread (and, perhaps, if we are very lucky, celebration yet again).
I’m somewhere in the latter stages of that progression, having gone through a few decades worth of celebration, a good dozen or more of reflection (starting around age 40, I guess) and, most recently, something akin to the feeling of dread, albeit, in my case, for the last four birthdays I’ve been more inclined to celebrate, those years having been lived as a cancer survivor.
Even so, with each passing year I anticipate the approach of each anniversary of my birth with a greater mixture of bemusement and anxiety. How can this be happening to me? I cry out to myself. I’m getting old!!
And, I should add, if the old adage, “you’re as young as you feel,” is true, then I’m older after I finish a round of golf than I am when I start it, and much older at the end of a day than I am at the beginning of one.
Well, you are probably thinking, join the club, my friend.
It’s true, of course, that getting older is what continues to happen to all of us, from the very moment of our first breath. And, if we are lucky enough (there’s an irony here that many a stand-up comic has built a routine or two around), we will ultimately, by anyone’s gauge, be old.
One’s definition of old is entirely subjective, of course. In the amusingly poignant 1980 film, “On Golden Pond,” the septuagenarian wife (Katherine Hepburn) tells her soon to be octogenarian husband (Henry Fonda) that a nice couple she met in town is “middle aged, just like us.” Fonda, whose character has, in the late stages of his life, developed a nasty acceptance of his reality, replies with a disgusted harrumph.
More and more with each passing year, I find myself in agreement with old Henry. Surviving with cancer is nothing to be ashamed of, but it certainly doesn’t slow down the aging process. And so, perhaps before my time, I find myself asking an altogether commonplace question: What is all so wonderful about getting old, let alone celebrating the fact?
There is, however, another aspect to birthdays, and it’s one which I suspect has justified the tremendous economy that exists around them. (The greeting card industry alone, without birthdays, weddings and funerals, would be on the endangered species list; in fact, with the explosion of “e-cards,” tweets and Facebook walls, it may be anyway).
Birthdays are an occasion for celebrating the unique life that is ours, and they provide an opportunity for those who are part of our lives to salute the unique person that we are.
For even though we may think of the lot of humanity as consisting of a bundle of commonly held behavior patterns and being composed of a complex set of identical biological, chemical and physical properties, it is also true that we are, each of us, unique and special, almost “uncopyable,” if you will. (And you can rest assured that no amount of cloning or other scientific breakthrough is ever going to change that fact).
In other words, there is, in this grand design of which we are a part, this undeniable fact: Like snowflakes, no two human beings are exactly alike.
And so, as we make our collective journeys through the years of our lives, we recognize the uniqueness of all of our fellow travelers by honoring them on the anniversaries of their births. We say “Happy Birthday,” not as a statement of congratulations for the day, but for the life that came into existence on that date some years before and for the personality that has been forming ever since.
I’m not all that partial to being reminded of my ever-increasing chronological age, but I can definitely get down with the idea of my abiding uniqueness. There is no one else in the world quite like me. I have a few talents and many flaws. The talents, such as they are, aren’t particularly special, and the flaws (most of them anyway) are entirely common. But when you put the whole package together, there is, in this person who is me, a guy who is very unlike any other. And I guess being reminded of that fact once a year is not an altogether unpleasant thing.
So, “Happy Birthday” to me, and to each of you, when the anniversary of your birth comes around.
Happy birthday to you, indeed!
Looks like I’m progressing through the cycle a little faster than you are, because my 30th birthday pushed me into the reflective phase. And I’ve been trying to hammer down exactly why we hold onto the memories that we do. Some are clearly significant and have helped mold us into the (as you put it) unique individual that we are. But others seem pointless and random. Of course, there’s also the set of false memories that we have created and those that we have forgotten. If there is a pattern governing which memories fall into which category, it elludes me.
As usual, your post is thought-provoking and well put. Thanks!
Plato said that our spiritual eyesight improves as our physical eyesight declines. I like the improvement but would much prefer it in my 30 year old body.
Hmmm…a happy anniversdary of your day of birth to be certain, snd too, a felicitous start to this new cycle. Can’t remember exactly your “class of” year, old fellow undergrad alumnus, but I do think it was hgher than my ’67, which would make your age lower. Nice balance that. And I too am a cancer survivor, a year ahead of you, my cancer less serious perhaps, but no less serious-making. So, considering the alternative to the mounting years, I do find it at this stage much more agreeable to be dealing with whatever slowing of gait and dimming of eyesight. To be considered: perhaps we had all that wisdom from the get-go — being a grandparent, I could make an impassioned and enlightened argument for just that. Perhaps the problem was the 30-year old body. In any case, mazel tov, schoene gruesse, auguri, blessings! I’m glad you’re stil here and still kicking — very coltishly!
Congratulations on another successful orbit of the earth around the sun marked from the date your successful escape from a maternal bastille.
While such arbitrary anniversaries don’t carry much importance for us, I have learned they are an excellent tool to convince people you like to congregate at the same place and time and imbibe libations.
See, “Happy Birthday” may not be as accurate, but is certainly less clunky and has such a nice ring to it.
As always, your column is both eloquent and insightful.