June 2002: You Say It's Your Birthday

My birthday is this month, and I'll probably mention that all over the site. But these days I have a love/hate relationship with my birthday. Love, since it's the one day of the year when you get to do anything you want to. Although if you don't have a girlfriend the annoyance/fun factor inherent in that rule goes way down. This year if I said, "Hey, I'm gonna wear a bath towel around my neck like a cape and run around the house pretending to be DorritGirl Avenger of the Universe while singing along loudly to White Zombie," my ex's reaction would be, "I don't give a crap, I'm going out. Just don't mess up the house." That small downer aside, I do still like the attention and stuff you get from friends. But you know this you-have-a-birthday-and-you're-a-year-older deal? Well, that part's just NOT working for me anymore.

The getting older thing did used to work. I mean it ensured that when I turned 15 I could drive, and when I turned 18 I could vote and finally drink (legally), and so on. I was never worried because, as my older friends will tell you, I never expected to be alive when I was 30. I didn't know how I would exit, but I DID know I was going to die before I reached the dreaded 3-0. (I WAS one of the Young Dudes--"don't wanna be alive when you're 25.") Imagine my surprise when I woke up on June 25 that year and was still here. Talk about shock-o-rama. I didn't know who to yell at either--God? Whoever controls "the list?" Someone was asleep on the job, and now I'm still paying the price.

But I digress. My problem now is that once you reach 4--uh, the decade after 30, it just keeps going like that stupid Energizer bunny. You already know how to drive, and can vote, and drink, and basically do whatever the hell you want, including dying your hair platinum, getting really bitchin' Anil Gupta tattoos, buying all the expensive toys you want and gluing old shoes to the walls of your house (it's conceptual okay?). You can even eat Pop Rocks and drink soda and wait for your stomach to explode. So what's the point? To reach 50 so you can join AARP? The Grey Panthers? To reach 65 so you can collect social security money that'll be gone? Have slackers push you down the stairs in your wheelchair? Not me. This system sucks, and I'm not buying into it anymore.

Here are a couple of alternatives that I think everyone should take advantage of when they're in or past the decade after 30:

  1. Start Measuring Your Age in Dog Years.
    This means you only add another year every eight years. So if you turned 40 in the year 2000 (I'm not saying I did, and the only people who really know how old I am are me and my astrologer), you wouldn't turn 41 until 2008. HOWEVER, so you don't miss the fun and presents of birthdays, every year on the day of your birth you can legally and morally celebrate a "pre birthday." Kind of like when people got pre-engagement rings in college--they were "engaged to be engaged." Well, you're pre celebrating the birthday you'll actually have in eight years. The only difference is that with a pre birthday, your age doesn't go up a notch; that only happens every eighth year.
  2. If One Of Your Friends Guesses You're Younger Than You Are, You Get To Keep That Age.
    A few years ago I was at a party at my friend Shandy's house. This guy we know, Ian, was bitching about turning 28. I told him to shut up, because he should be thankful he wasn't as old as I was. So Ian said to me all petulant and smart-ass like, "Big deal, what are you, 32?" And I replied, "That's exactly right. Yes, Ian, I'm 32." Which means with this option, I'm only turning 36 this year. WOO HOO!
  3. You Can Be Whatever Age You Convince Your Elderly Mother You Are.
    One of the things that happens when your mother's in her 70s is that she starts to mix things up and forget a lot of stuff. Fortunately it's nothing really important, like where she lives or that underwear doesn't go on your head or that you drive on the right side of the road. (At least, not yet.) It's little things like how old you are. It helps if you have an older sibling, as I do, because that gives you even more leeway for juggling numbers since she has two dates to forget and/or jumble up. Actually, at this point my mother doesn't even bring up a number anymore. The older I am the older she becomes, and it doesn't sound like she likes being older all that much either. It's evolved into a mutual "don't ask/don't tell" routine.

Those are my suggestions for binding the hands of time. I think we could actually get at least one of them written into law, since there are more baby boomers than anyone and we basically control the world right now. (At least whatever the Illuminati let us pretend we control. . .) Oh, and said law will come along with free plastic surgery /collagen/botox/whatever anytime you want, no questions asked. But if you start to look like Faye Dunaway or Cher, you WILL lose all plastic surgery privileges and possibly have to be put to sleep.

I haven't decided which one of these I'm going to use yet, but I'm leaning toward the dog-years method. Just keep in mind this old saying, one that my mother pretty much drummed into my head from the time I was conscious of her drumming things into my head: "A woman who will tell her age will tell anything." SO true. Oh, plus if any of you DO ask me how old I am now, I'll just slap the shit out of you. Happy Birthday to me!