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Today is my 46th birthday, and I feel all right about it, I suppose.
Except for the fact that how I feel about it is even an issue. The mere fact that I'm now ambivalent about birthdays makes me a little blue.
I can remember exactly when my feelings about birthdays shifted from unequivocal to conflicted (at best). It was the occasion of my twenty-ninth birthday.
Most people, or so it seems to me, don't experience birthday-associated dread until their thirtieth, but what can I say? I was precocious.
But since then, each ensuing February has found me torn. Should I arrange some sort of organized celebration? Spend it quietly with friends? Throw myself off a roof? So many choices!
Most married people -- especially those with children -- don't generally have the luxury of ignoring their birthday altogether, even if they should desire to. In most families, the occasion must be celebrated, despite any ambivalence on the part of the birthday "boy" or "girl."
In recent years, I've observed the occasion by simply emailing a few friends to tell them I'm planting myself for the evening at a cocktail lounge owned by a pal of mine and left it at that. That way, little effort or planning is required. They can stop by to toast me if it's convenient for them -- or not, as they prefer. No muss, no fuss.
But this year, I didn't somehow manage to accomplish even that minimal level of organization. Instead, a friend and I are going to dinner and a movie -- if I can somehow decide upon which picture we should see, that is.
There are several Oscar-nominated films I'd like to see before Sunday, but do I want to take in a grim movie (MONSTER, CITY OF GOD) on my birthday? Probably not.
But would I be happier seeing a movie about an old fart who can't move beyond dating women who are far too young for him (SOMETHING'S GOTTA GIVE)? Not that I date women many years my junior, mind you, or that I even try -- but then I'm no Jack Nicholson.
I'm leaning instead toward seeing GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING, though even that option has its drawbacks, given my current state of mind. I'll no doubt leave the theatre feeling guilty about the little movie star crush I have on the young-enough-to-be-my-daughter Scarlett Johansson.
Probably my real issue with birthdays dates back to my thirtieth. In contrast to my twenty-ninth, my thirtieth birthday was sheer delight. At the time, I was absolutely mad for a wonderful woman, and she treated to me to a night at the Plaza Hotel. We had a wonderful room on an upper floor that overlooked both Central Park and Fifth Avenue. We ordered in Chinese food, drank champagne, and even slipped down to Trader Vic's for flaming tropical drinks.
It was a truly memorable evening, and not a single birthday since has lived up to it. dammit.
Three months later, the young lady moved to Seattle and then, shortly thereafter, to Japan, where she still resides. We remain friends to this day.
Still, would it kill her, every third or fourth February, to indulge me by flying in and treating me to another night at the Plaza, by springing for more champagne and General Tso's chicken?
That's not really asking so much, is it?
sigh...
Posted by brett at 04:07 PM | TrackBack