Me Day
Birthdays are kind of a silly ritual at first glance. We’re basically celebrating a human being’s ability to remain alive while the Earth makes one rotation around the Sun. You make it all the way around, you get a party and some cake. We’re also celebrating being one year closer to death, but that presumes you’re going to die on your birthday (I can’t decide if that would be really cool or really awful; I guess it depends on the circumstances).
Comedian Patton Oswalt says that some birthdays are fine but not all. For instance, today, my 24th birthday, would be no cause for celebration. Nothing’s changed. I can already drink, smoke, and get away with murdering a prostitute (the age limit on this varies from state to state). According to Oswalt, you get a birthday every decade, so mine wouldn’t be until I reached 30 and that would suck.
Because the truth is that birthdays aren’t a celebration of longevity or even transformation but of one’s self. It’s like having a holiday dedicated to you. None of your friends are going to be dicks to you, people are going to be extra nice and give you presents, and you will feel loved for one day before going back to the misery that is your day-to-day life. This would certainly be tiresome but it’s only once a year. And everyone should get at least one day for themselves.
Oddly enough, my birthday wasn’t supposed to be May 30th. My parents originally decided to have me emerge from my mom’s uterus on June 1st because it was an easy date to remember and a nice round number as far dates are concerned. Unfortunately, the date of June 1st was not to be. Not because my mom went into early labor or there were complications. No, you see, I was born two days early because in Minneapolis (yes, I was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota and thus will never be considered a true southerner like my brother), because the nurses were about to go on strike. I try not to be bitter about that. I prefer to think that I’ve been accommodating since birth. It’s also amusing to think that if I’m dying in a hospital (hopefully in the rather distant future), the nurses will pull the plug on me because they’re about to go on strike. And I am always left to wonder if my destiny should be to support nurses at all costs or spend my life trying to crush unions.
Being a student of history, I look to this date to see if any past events inform my personality. The following events are of note:
1431 - Joan of Arc burned at the stake (self-discovery: French BBQ is delicious)
1806 - Andrew Jackson kills Charles Dickinson in a duel after Dickinson had accused Jackson’s wife of bigamy (self-discovery: the best comeback to an insult involves a gun and twenty paces)
1883- In New York City, a rumor that the Brooklyn Bridge is going to collapse causes a stampede that crushes twelve people (self-discovery: gossip is fun!)
1896 - Howard Hawks born
1899 - Irving Thalberg born (I think these last two relate to my life in some way…I’m just not sure how…)
1951 - Stephen Tobolowsky born (self-discovery: I like knowing the names of character actors rather than just saying “Hey, it’s that guy!” although I do have a book with that title about that subject).
1958 - Ted McGinley born (self-discovery: I kill television shows but have great hair)
So what does all this mean? I have no idea. But while I try to sort that out, I’m rather happy right where I am. Life’s not perfect but it’s far better than it’s been in a long time and I aim to keep it that way (and intend to improve upon it). I’m very blessed (cinge, atheists, cringe) to have such a wonderful family and such tolerant friends (I know I’m surrounded by good people when they don’t shun me for finding this hilarious).
Thank you everyone. Now go buy me something pretty.
Today was a day of guitar woes.
