In case you don’t recognize the charming fellow on the masthead, try penciling in a mustache and a few circles under the eyes. And maybe add a couple of liver spots. While many of you were resting or traveling or working during spring break, I was busy aging down in Georgia.
Granted, we all spent the break getting older, but some of us did it in round numbers that rhyme with “sporty.” Yes, I officially crossed the bar on March 8. Like Lady Bracknell in Oscar Wilde’s play “The Importance of Being Earnest,” I was afraid that the occasion might “expose me to comment.” My friends and family did not disappoint.
Let me share just a sampling of the abuse I received via Hallmark: Card 1 outside: “Another birthday … and you look like a million.” Inside: “Which is silly. You’re nowhere near that old.”
Card 2 outside: Fortuneteller says, “I foresee a very ‘up’ year for you.” Inside: “Cholesterol — up. Weight — up. Hairline — up.” and so forth.
Card 3 outside: An elephant with a stethoscope says, “Having another birthday? Well, remember one thing.” Inside: “Go on. Try to remember something. Anything.”
Card 4 outside: A lady trying on shoes says to the salesman, “I can’t wear those. They rub my bunions.” Inside: “This could be the year you start blurting out your ailments to total strangers.” Sadly, this is true. The more the body degenerates, the more likely it is that any one symptom of decay will come up in random conversation. However, I have learned one thing in life: There is no point discussing your infirmities with older people. These folks talk about diseases like they are poker chips:
Old guy 1: “My bursitis is really acting up today.”
Old guy 2: “I’ll see your bursitis and raise you a hiatal hernia.”
This means, of course, that I will have to wait another 60 years to make health complaints that cannot be trumped by someone more decrepit.
But since this newspaper is read by so many in the 18 to 22 demographic, I do have a few questions for anyone who will listen. Where did my youth go? What happened to that guy who could go to the Old Country Buffet with his college buddies and try to eat the place out of business? (Did anyone see the license plate number on my metabolism?) And what happened to the young chap who didn’t have to take a break between putting on socks? And at what point did the entire literate world switch to small print?
Of course, if a person is going to stumble into his fifth decade, it ought to be done in style, and my family helped me celebrate during the break. We gathered for a huge meal, and the cooks graciously made sure that everything was easy to chew. Then, after Mom saw to it that I was resting comfortably with a lap blanket, she brought in the cake. I silently blessed the heart of whoever invented headstone-shaped birthday candles.
It’s nice to have clever relatives, and there was a theme to their gifts: 40 pens, 40 socks, 40 Post-It notes, 40 paper clips, 40 breath mints, 40 mini Snickers and 40 very-realistic-but-also-very-fake $100 bills. The last one was a bit risky, as it is unwise to get a person my age too excited. Everyone also signed a card that read, “40 things we love about Michael.” I was touched by this gesture, though my sister-in-law later confessed that they really had to stretch it to make the quota. But all in all it truly was a lovely evening. I’m just glad that no one used the phrase “winding down.”
When William Wordsworth was just a wee lad of 34, he wrote a poem lamenting all the things a person loses when childhood ends — innocence, simplicity, freedom and all that. But he soon comes to grips with the fact that maturity has its compensations, and he decides that he “will grieve not” and will instead “find strength in what remains behind.” So what if I take more care sitting down these days? So what if my hairline and waistline have reversed polarities? I’m still here, and I’m grateful.
Can I get an “Amen” from the over-40 crowd in the audience?
Now can you say it a little louder, please?
