© Pierre Maré,
2004 - 2007
Offbeat 105
July. Birthday month again. At least it falls on a Friday this month, so no need for heavy scheduling. I’ll just do my best to get rid of the work, cancel the day and play catch-up on Saturday. This year makes it one year shy of forty. Almost halfway through (I hope). Ouch.
It’s going to be a great day, full of wife and daughter, though knowing my daughter her materialistic drive will outstrip mine and win by a good few lengths. I wonder who will be buying the birthday presents, and who will be receiving them? She has a way of wrapping me around her finger, that I have not yet entirely managed to shake. Fortunately we have a computer at home, so Playstation and Playstation games hold no appeal. And anyway, the budget won’t stretch that far by a very long shot.
This year has been slightly different. I haven’t toyed with the idea of asking for a shotgun, indicating that I may just have outgrown my testosterone phase. Years go by. Things change. Yet I still harbour the feeling that if I start asking for sensible things I can write myself off as ‘over the hill’. No drill kit for me this year, not that I would know how to use it. Air-conditioning has a certain appeal though. Maybe next year, when I am older and wiser.
I normally use the few days leading up to my birthday as a time in which to sit back and review everything that I have achieved in the course of the preceding year, followed by a really good sulk, before attacking the next year with a seriously ambitious attitude.
Taking stock of this year, I haven’t won the lottery. I got a lot of e-mails from the Netherlands, telling me that I did, but all of them wanted me to pay for the ticket first by sending money to an anonymous account. I sent back a couple of e-mails telling them I would buy as many tickets as the organizers wanted if they sent me the money first, but no luck there.
Nor did I become an incredibly wealthy rock star. It probably has something to do with the fact that I still don’t know how to play the guitar. I spent a couple of rock star-lifestyle afternoons in the pub though, but none of them were beer-drenched enough to make them memorable, embarrassing or newsworthy.
As far as toys go, my beloved iPod got outmoded and my computer can no longer play many of the newer games. I managed to play the brilliant Half Life 2 before my chipset became totally redundant, but the crippling frustration of trying to keep it updated in the face of very slow internet and a sadistic online game start-up mechanism took off some of the shine. My mobile phone was made archaic by about sixteen consecutive new releases, all with newer, better functions and more buttons and flashy bits than ever before.
Yet in spite of a mundane year, frustrating and stressful in many respects, I still can’t find it in myself to sulk.
Maybe next year. Or perhaps not.
My philosophy in life has always been to demand the impossible, preferably ‘like yesterday’. This year has been different. I relied almost exclusively upon myself, so everything has been a lot faster, and far less complex. And there have been new people in my ambit, with bright new ideas, and territories that I have long wanted to explore. If all the plans materialise, next year should also be sulk-free.
Then there’s the whole family thing: nights spent arguing about whether it will be Scooby Doo for the ninety-eighth time, something that Mummy and Daddy want to watch, or story time and ‘early to bed’. The routine is amiable and filled with contentment.
All that being said, although another year has passed, I still refuse to get older. There is far too much fun and adventure for me to consider adopting the dour, ‘I’m-so-serious-and-adult’ demeanor that I see in so many others around me. Every new responsibility has its element of fun and fascination, so I’ll play to that instead of going the weighty burden angle.
Some people are meant to get old. I don’t think I’m one of them. Another year gone, and already I feel younger.
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