My Birthday

Thirty-eight years ago today, about twelve hours from now, I ventured into the world. Sorry for the pain, Mom. Wasn't it worth it though?

Birthdays are special because every single person has their own day of the year that is unique to them. Their own private celebration day. When I was a kid, my birthdays were spent with my friends and family, at my parents' house, with hats, balloons, games, cake, and of course, gifts. Birthdays were much more festive back then. And since mine fell in late August, with a couple of weeks of summer left, everyone was always in a good mood. Once school started, all bets were off. No one in grade school felt like partying in September.

As you get older, birthdays are celebrated a bit differently. I remember a surprise party my college girlfriend threw for me one year with all of my friends -- I was actually really surprised. And that surprised me.

When I turned 21, my dad felt that it was his duty to take me to a "dancing establishment" near Boston -- I think it was called the Golden Banana -- and get me drunk, along with my friend P. Good times. He still gets a big kick out of the picture he took of me booting in the bathroom after my big night out. On my 22nd birthday a year later, I was traveling in Sulmona, Italy with my college friend C. and my dad, trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. I still remember the angst and the uncertainty. Some things never change.

I remember birthdays spent happy and in love, with people who did everything they could to make the day special for me. Thinking about it is like thinking about a movie that I watched once, but that I was actually in. While those relationships are over, the bittersweet memories are mine to keep.

And then, of course, there is my sister T., my only connection to family in New York, who has celebrated virtually every birthday with me since she moved here several years ago. T. always shows up with a big smile on her face, a thoughtfully-written card, and an equally considerate gift. Last year, it was a book about the history of Billyburg, my new neighborhood. Without T., I would have spent more than one birthday alone, wallowing in the existential muck and mire. But she won't allow it.

My strongest memory of a birthday with T. is when we met in Central Park on August 25, 2001, on a beautiful sunny day. We spent the afternoon hanging out, talking about life and how great it was to be living and working in New York. We had no clue what kind of hell was coming 17 days later. The peacefulness of that birthday, contrasted with the terrible events that followed shortly thereafter, will always remain in my memory.

Some people don't like birthdays because it means they are getting older. I have never felt that way. I like getting older. More age = greater experience = increased knowledge = more wisdom = fewer mistakes. I am sure that there will come a point, maybe in my 40s or 50s when my back gives out (actually that has already started, I am sorry to say), or my knees start acting up, that I change my mind. I hope not. No one likes a grumpy old man.

Happy Birthday to me.