I had my birthday this past weekend; I am now seven hundred and thirty-two months old.
Yes, you read that correctly. I have decided to once again mark my time on this earth in months, the way that parents with children under the age of three track their offspring’s ages.
“Our sweet Abigail is fourteen months old now.” “Hard to believe that Joshua will be twenty-five months old tomorrow.” “Sylvia just turned seven hundred and thirty-two months old on Saturday; my, how time does fly.”
Yep, that’s me–back on the ‘age counted in months’ bandwagon.
I’m not sure why I ever stopped thinking of my life this way in the first place, although it likely had to do with going through the ‘I want to be older’ phase most of us wish for as pre-teens and teenagers.
“How old am I? Why, I’m almost thirteen,” said immediately after my birthday clock struck twelve in the summer of 1965, or “Yes, I most certainly am old enough to have a glass of wine, thank you very much; I’m almost nineteen,” said with a straight face right after turning eighteen in July of 1971.
Back then I liked to infer that I was older than I was actually. Now that I most definitely am older I see no reason to continue using that nonsensical strategy. You will not catch me saying, “Yes, I’m almost sixty-two,” even if you ask me on July 18 next year. No, no, I will be, “I’m seven hundred and forty-three months old and I can still tie my own sneakers and cut up my own food, so I would say that I’m doing pretty good for being this many months old.”
“Harold, we need to sell more cards…Mother’s Day cards and Happy Anniversary cards just aren’t keeping our bottom line above bottom. How is your Big Box store doing?”
“George, our bottom line isn’t much better than yours. A few flowers to celebrate an anniversary or a trinket to let mom know that she is loved just doesn’t pay the bills…we need to figure out a way to sell our
crap merchandise three hundred and sixty five days a year, every year, or I will have to cut down on the ungodly exorbitant bonus the company pays me each spring. What crazy scheme do you have in mind?”
Yes, I’m pretty sure birthday cards and the idea of receiving presents and cake with candles originated in a boardroom somewhere; nothing else makes sense.
I told my family and friends again this year, “I don’t want to celebrate my birthday; it’s just another day to me. Really, I don’t want a fuss.” And the difference between saying something like this and not meaning it and saying something like this and meaning it is that I actually meant it. But nobody listened to me.
So this past Saturday I donned my birthday smile and celebrated being seven hundred and thirty-two months old. Quite a few family members gathered on my cottage deck to share this achievement with me and as far as I know, a good time was had by all.
It was nice spending time with people I love and I appreciate all the best wishes I received. My cards wished me Happy Birthday and the gifts to me were thoughtful and indicative of knowing me well, but I really didn’t do anything to justify being the center of attention that day except that I managed to breathe in and breathe out–not much skill needed to accomplish that–in fact I try to breathe in and breathe out each and every day. But apparently on July 19 my continuing to breathe in and out is special.
So I guess it’s “A Very Merry Seven Hundred and Thirty-Two Months” to me!
Thank you….thank you very much (said in my best Elvis-impersonation voice).
By the way, how many months old will you be when your special day rolls around again? If you were born before 1970, how about you start marking your time on this earth in months, too? It’s quite liberating and encourages people to do long-division in their heads to figure out your age in years–after all, we want to keep those neurons firing as long as we continue to breathe in and breathe out, don’t we?
Thanks so much for stopping by, and don’t be a stranger!