Just like the song says, I'm another day older and deeper in debt. I've always been a fan of birthdays due to that whole "receiving presents" thing. And check this … for the privilege of being born, people treat you nice and want to take you out to eat and throw you surprise parties and such. What a neat racket we have going.
But in all actuality, it's just another day in the 365.242199 days it takes to revolve around the sun. What it means past the age of twenty-five is completely different than before age twenty-five. It means another tick on the ole bald-o-meter, a slower metabolism which results in easier weight gain, more wheezing during sex than you've ever experienced, etc. It means I'm headed downhill.
You know what I'd like to see? Instead of a celebration for the day you were born, how about a celebration for the day you were conceived? Happy Conception Day, I'd call it.
Think about which day was more fun for those involved, the day you and your big head were born or the day you were conceived? Which day had the biggest endorphin rush? And which day had IV's and pain meds and special breathing exercises? Which day had a lot of heavy breathing and sweat and approximately a hundred Oh-Yes-es? And which day had a thousand curse words and enough mood swings to make the neighborhood crack-whore seem like Martha Stewart?
My Mom was in labor with me for several days, finally pushing me out around 12:30 in the morning. I was a small baby but I still gave her a fit. Going in had to be a helluva lot easier, couldn't have taken much more than a few minutes. (radio static) Tower One, we have a go. Countdown commencing … three … two … one … ignition … boosters lit … Houston, we have liftoff … Boy look at that sucker go! Swim, baby, swim!!
I turned thirty-six today and do you know what I did last night to celebrate? I went to bed at 8:30 with a crossword puzzle and a good book, and I was excited to do so! I am officially old now and I guess I should take it in stride. (In my defense, the book was Pat Conroy's "Beach Music," the most amazing book I may have ever read in my entire life. More on that a later day.)
We really should begin celebrating Happy Conception Day. And here's a novel idea, instead of giving the presents to us, why don't we who were born give the presents to our parents? After all, they're the people who deserve recognition, they're the ones who actually achieved something. All I did was pop out screaming at everyone all messy and ready to shoot green poop all over the place.
WARNING: Complete sappiness follows. Read at your own risk.
Besides, they've already given me the best gift anyone could ever have given me. Life.
Oh, and my first bike. And my Atari. And my seventh-grade roller skating party. And my first computer. And my first car, a beat-up old Chevy that over-heated at every stoplight. And the money for my first date with Angela Smith. And that whole college tuition thing. And all the love and attention a boy could ever hope for. (sniffle)
I don't know about you, but in three more months, I'm celebrating Happy Conception Day with my parents. I'm not sure what I'll do yet but it will be my parents in the spotlight, not me. I'll thank them for everything because without them, I'd still be … well, a twinkle in my Dad's eye.
And while I'm at it, I'll thank my Dad for that whole growing-hair-on-my-back phenomenon I'm experiencing in this wonderful old age. He says it doesn't come from him but I've got to blame somebody and what good little boy is gonna blame his Mom's genetics for that one?
Happy Birthing Day To Me.