To explain why I actually had to decide that: I had a thing happen a few weeks back. Was at a dinner party and a close friend happened to mention the date of my birth right out in public. I was peeved at him for several minutes.
For years now, I haven’t liked people knowing my birthday.
I’ll tell you why. It’s a glitch left over from childhood, but apparently I’m still carrying it around. (I’ve just apologized to my good friend, who puts up with my countless idiotic quirks without complaint.)
You remember Valentine’s Day in elementary school? We all brought valentines to give to friends. We’re talking third grade or so, so gender lines were less sharply drawn, but generally the boys would give them to girls, and girls would give them to boys.
[ If you’re outside the U.S. and are unsure what I’m talking about, “Valentine’s Day” is a juvenile sort of holiday on February 14, during which you express affection for members of the opposite sex by giving them little cards or candy that say “Be My Valentine.” If you’re older, and a guy, it’s a good time to give that special girl a diamond and propose marriage. Observance of the day, which is only loosely based on some sort of recognition of Saint Valentine, supposed patron saint of lovers, is mediated annually by massive corporate marketing that has latched onto the idea like ticks onto a fat artery, each company using it to sell their own particular heart-emblazoned crap.]
There were two kinds of people you might get a valentine from.
There were the actual friends, people you were close to, who would give you one, and it would mean something special and real.
And there was the inevitable Little Miss Perfect, who would give a valentine to everybody. Those meant about as much as the gift of a blank index card. There was no special feeling conveyed, just the observance of a social duty.
She meant well, and I know it. Probably there was a mother somewhere saying “You don’t want all the OTHERS to feel left out, do you? So let’s get one for everybody.”
Cue the sad Awwws: The only valentines I ever got were from the LMPs.
Yes, I admit it. I was not a lovable, attractive little boy. I was bright, socially awkward, and above all, shy. Undemonstrative in any social sense, I did not make friends easily.
There were little girls I got along with quite well later in school life, but those temporary attractions never happened to coincide with Valentine’s Day.
Valentine’s Day was never special to me in the way it seemed special to others.
It was the same with birthdays. I distinctly remember my brothers and best friends having parties on their birthdays, parties where people from outside the family showed up and had cake and brought presents and so forth, but I don’t remember anybody but family at my own “parties.” There were no hats or noisemakers or cameras. My mom baked a cake, put frosting and candles on it, we had dinner (my Jehovah’s Witness father in the room specifically for the dinner, and not the birthday), the cake was brought out with slight fanfare, candles were lit, I blew out the candles and made the obligatory wish. Lights back on, cake cut and distributed, I unwrapped the present and thought “Oh, good, another shirt.” Life went on.
I wanted it to be a special day, as it seemed to be for others. But … shy and perfectionistic, for me it may never have been, even with the best of intentions on the part of everyone else. Probably my expectations would always have exceeded what life was able to deliver. But still, my memory of birthdays includes almost no fanfare, then or later, that a birthday should inspire.
And I carried that around in my head, working at it, for close to 40 years.
Coming up on 60, though, and taking emphatic notice of my Dad’s recent death, I realize I don’t have forever to get everything done. If I’m going to enjoy all the little bits of being human, I’m going to have to DO them. Now, or very soon.
Besides which … 60 should be noticed, right? Celebrated, fanfared, foofarawed. This is the year you transition into Old Person – or, at least in my case, Grownup.
So: I was born on September 6, 1952 — 1:15 p.m., 9 pounds, 1 ounce, baby boy Fox, Dr. Herbert G. Cull attending. (Wouldn’t you know it? Saturday’s child. I was already marked as one who would work hard for a living. )
Checking the history of the date, this was also the day Canada’s first television station, CBFT-TV, opened in Montreal, so I’m exactly the same age as Canadian television. (Welcome, Canadians, to the modern world, and tomorrow I will introduce you to the historically-recent discovery of shoes.) In movies, 1952 was the year of Singin’ in the Rain and High Noon, as well as the John-Wayne-in-Ireland flick, The Quiet Man.
In just about a week, then, I will officially become 60. (For you Republicans, that’s 60-years-and-9-months.)
I definitely don’t expect presents, or cake. (Fortunately few of my blogger friends know my address. Besides, I recently received a fantastic notebook computer as an out-of-the-blue gift, and I was truly touched by it, my you-know-who-you-are-coblogger.)
On the other hand, a heartfelt “Happy 60th Birthday Hank!” would go well. (Followed by “Okay, okay, we’re getting off your fucking lawn! Jeez, stop being such a bastard!)
From my side, thank you all for reading and commenting. You’re my online family, and I treasure both the writing I get to do and the reactions to it. An extra special thanks to Ed Brayton and PZ Myers for allowing me to come to FtB to blog, and to my other co-bloggers, social firebrands all, for being such a regular inspiration.
In my own life, and in my online life, some really good things are coming.
For one thing, I’m toying with changing the name and the focus of my blog (sort of apropos, anniversary-wise, since last week marked one full year of FtB blogging; When the Earth Moves from Aug. 24, 2011, is still a pretty good piece of writing), all of it based on the idea behind the First Person Revolutionary series I’m currently writing on.
I’ll have Part 4 up today or tomorrow, and it will begin.
By the way, I’m celebrating by going on my first-ever whale-watching tour out of Gloucester, Massachusetts. There might be lobster and a little single-malt scotch after. I’ll have pics when I get back, either on Facebook or my Flickr site.
Onward to the rest of my 30,000 days.