The strange thing is that birthdays aren’t really about age.
They’re about relationships.
If everyone who knows you is delighted to spend a Saturday afternoon celebrating another lap around the sun, congratulations. You’ve apparently been the sort of person people enjoy having in their lives.
If attendance requires repeated reminders, emotional blackmail, and a Facebook post that begins, “Guess nobody remembers whose birthday it is …” the problem may not be the calendar.
At some point, every aging blowhard loses the ability to confuse longevity with likability.
You’ve met this guy. Every story begins with how important he used to be. Every conversation eventually becomes a lecture. Every criticism is dismissed because, after all, he’s been around forever. He mistakes exhaustion for respect.
And every year he throws himself another birthday party.
The invitations become less an expression of affection than a summons.
“Come celebrate me.”
“… Why?”
“Because it’s my birthday.”
That’s not really an answer.
This year’s Fourth of July had exactly that energy.
The flags were out. The grills were hot. The fireworks were ready to distract us with expensive things exploding in the sky.
But underneath it all was the unmistakable sense of a guest of honor insisting that applause is mandatory.
Maybe that’s what felt so off.
For years I’ve been mildly skeptical of the Fourth because compulsory patriotism has always seemed a little weird. If your love has to be scheduled and accessorized, perhaps it’s not love but choreography.
This year, going to the Fourth felt like attending a birthday party because declining would create more drama than showing up.
So you eat a hot dog. You clap politely when the candles are blown out. You say, “Many happy returns” because that’s what the script requires.
Then you check your watch, make an excuse about an early morning, and head home.
The birthday boy mistakes attendance for affection.
He always does.