A Birthday Unvitation

Hi Guys CJ here. I still feel compelled to identify myself here at him-dot-com because apparently a percentage of our gorgeous (but not-very-clever) readers don’t realise that a chick is writing the post de jour until they’re three quarters of the way through. Sometimes, all the way! So let’s be clear; today it’s her and not him. Can’t yer just smell the estrogen?

Don’t You Know What Today Is?

Have you ever had a friend or relative who plays the ‘You forgot my birthday’ game? I hate that. It’s like the ‘how much do you love me?’ test where if you do forget, then they are victorious. They have won. By not receiving a present! Well, I didn’t say they were very bright friends or relatives, did I?  

I’ve always been a firm believer in the shameless promotion of one’s own birthday. The way I see it, if I fail to launch an effective pre-birthday awareness campaign (beginning at least three weeks prior to said birthday), then I have no right to be upset when all I receive is a chocolate bar, fridge magnet and trashy card which has been purchased hastily from the local Seven Eleven. This marketing strategy has worked a treat over the years and my last birthday was especially wonderful: I felt special and loved (essential for a needy middle child with issues) and my friends and family felt proud that they were so organised and on top of things. Everyone’s a winner.

Forever Young

Next year, however, there will be no such campaign. I have decided to boycott my birthday. Yep, I’ve given it due consideration and concluded that the whole turning forty thing is about as appealing as a pap smear. So I’m opting out. That’s it. Not going to happen. If a tree falling in the forest doesn’t have to make a sound if no-one is there to hear it, then I don’t have to turn forty if there’s no-one around to sing Happy Birthday – to my ears it would sound like Chopin’s Funeral March anyway.

Now before you refer me to What’s-his-name’s Pants on Fire post, I’m not planning to actually lie about my age, I’ve simply decided that in future I will be a lot less than forthcoming about volunteering it when meeting new people. Actually, unless they have a court order, or an automatic weapon, it’s classified. I’d rather reveal my credit card details. Or my natural hair colour; actually, I’m not sure that I can remember what my natural hair colour is. Or was. Whatever.

Numbers Schmumbers

Have you ever thought that perhaps we grant far too much significance and hand over far too much power to the numbers in our lives? Weight? Bank Balance? Dress size? Annual income? Age? Or something more bloke-specific like… Horsepower? Penis length? Car value? And of course, bicep measurement? Not that anyone you or I know would be pre-occupied with his biceps.

I may have just been sacked here at biceps-are-us dot.com. I’ll keep you posted.

As an indicator of one’s physical and emotional health, age is an unreliable witness at best. This was clearly illustrated to me a couple of years ago when I attended my twenty year high school reunion – yep, Apathy and Underachievement High’s Class of 1987. It was a rare and somewhat freaky opportunity to be in a room where every single adult was within 1-2 years of each other in terms of chronological age.  From my completely unqualified observations, the biological age of my former classmates had a range of at least 10-20 years. Some people at the reunion were lean, fit and exuded optimism and cheerfulness. Well two were… and did. The others, well, didn’t. And weren’t. But then some people have an uncanny ability to grow old, cynical and worn out by twenty-three, don’t they?

Older, Not Wiser

We also tend to believe that the greater the number of candles on the birthday cake, the more maturity and wisdom the ‘birthday boy or girl’ might have. Pfft. Azif. However, we all know people who are living contradictions of this theory.  A dear friend of mine, Rachel, is forty but she has an aura of calm and maturity far beyond her years – and the body of a twenty five year-old. Come to think of it, I don’t really like her at all. Bitch. Whereas a sixty five year-old I know (ok, it’s my mother – shhhh, don’t you dare dob me in) remains as egocentric, petulant and high-maintenance as a six year-old. If someone stubbornly refuses to learn, grow, make changes and develop then they can become as stunted as a Bonsai. Although not as beautiful. Or tree-like. Or interesting. Or relaxing.

Shouldn’t You Be Knitting, Nancy?

Although chronological age is clearly limited as an indicator of a person’s overall wellbeing, ability and potential, we frequently use it to pigeon-hole those around us. We often, perhaps unintentionally, make judgemental assumptions as to what is ‘age appropriate behaviour’ and expect people to obediently conform to those standards. A lovely woman I know, Nancy, is over eighty but she could easily pass for sixty-five. She is fit, vibrant and has a wonderful attitude. She told me of her reluctance to reveal her age because she has found that once she does, people treat her differently – suddenly in their eyes she becomes a frail old lady and she is expected to follow the ‘rules’. How very boring. And unnecessary.

You Can’t Wear That!

The ‘age rules’ also seem to apply to the way in which we present ourselves. Please don’t think that I’m kidding myself that I look thirty – if anything I have noticed certain changes lately. Like how long it now takes for the pillow marks to leave my face in the morning. Do you get those too? What the hell is that about? Soon I’ll have to sleep hanging upside down from the ceiling like a bat if I plan to leave the house before noon. Uggh.

However, I would never want to look like ‘mutton dressed as lamb’. Although clearly it’s not doing Madonna any harm; look at Jesus – her toyboy (not the Son of God). I know, it’s very confusing. Does being forty mean I have to suddenly look as if I’ve just given up? Do I have to don the mandatory denim skirt, sensible shoes and frumpy blouse? And do I have to cut my hair short? I recently read that any woman over forty should not have hair longer than her nipple-line… in my case, that’s a moving target anyway. You know you’re getting older when your bra has been more expertly engineered than your car. Why is it that just when women are reaching their sexual peak, just when they’re becoming more confident and comfortable in their own skin, the rules declare that they should dress like a hausfrau? Even if they’ve never felt so hot before in their lives. Or maybe that’s just me. Or early menopause. Damn.

Oh No! Is that the time?

This obsession with chronological age sometimes causes us to panic and make precipitous (ie: really stupid) decisions. The ‘milestone’ birthdays and what they represent – perhaps half of our lives being irretrievably ‘used up’ – can shock us into action, and it seems that any old impulsive action will do.  Like buying a Harley. Do they have a special ‘Mid-life Crisis’ model? If not, maybe they should release one. It would look very shiny and cool but have an engine as powerful as my blender so that the guy who has spent the past twenty years flabbing-out behind his desk doesn’t kill himself in the first week. Hmmm…

Or perhaps we might like to suddenly run off with our secretary to become a complete cliché. Or have some Botox. Or a boob job. Actually …

Surely panicking over a number is self-defeating and mildly ridiculous. Am I going to wake up on my birthday next year only to hear my body say: ‘Sorry, you poor old thing. I know that yesterday we were chest-pressing 50kg but we’re actually forty now so today we’ll barely have the energy to jiggle our teabag. And, sadly, that won’t be the only thing that jiggles – our muscles have atrophied overnight so we now have the metabolism of a three-toed sloth. Oh and by the way, I wouldn’t look into the mirror before our morning wee because you’re in for a nasty shock.’

And FYI, I for one certainly won’t be telling the fabulous Loretta Watson (that’s her in the photo) of ‘Natural Miss Olympia’ fame that she’s not supposed to be ripped and rock-hard as she approaches her fortieth birthday. She could snap me like a twig.

I Can’t Change the World (yet) so I’ll Just Change Me

Given that it could take some time for me to single-handedly adjust our society’s false assumptions, expectations and unspoken social regulations based on chronological age (besides, isn’t it Craig’s job to be ruler of the world one day? He can take care of that one – he has nothing else to do.), I will just start with my own little personal protest: no turning forty for me.

Because there is still so much I want to do, learn and be. I refuse to set up limits in my own mind or be restricted by limits imposed by society based on one of the most problematic and inaccurate indicators of a person’s potential. It’s ok to tell me that I’m not co-ordinated enough, fit enough, smart enough, pretty enough, talented enough or even not confident enough. But please don’t tell me that I’m not young enough.

Thanks for the Gift

So, next year my birthday will be a non-event: literally. Sure, I’ll miss out on some cool presents and the opportunity for a calorie amnesty (you know calories don’t count on your birthday, right? Just don’t stretch it out to a week-long celebration like a Hindu wedding or you’ll end up the size of an Indian elephant), but I’m hoping to gain something far more precious: freedom.

CJ xox

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