Glass Maze Every jumbled pile of person

35

I have trouble remembering how old I am. There just isn’t enough spare retentive capacity in my tiny little one-bedroom mind to waste on another number, so I don’t. This hasn’t been a problem, though: I was born in 1970, so the calculation is particularly simple, even for me.

However, as I approach my thirty-fifth year, it occurs to me that I might eventually start forgetting how old I am not because I can’t remember, but because I don’t want to. I’m not feeling particularly old at the moment, but that may change when death begins to purple my horizon.

All of which agrees nicely with my Theory of False Stasis, which goes something like this: It’s not that people don’t change; they just find different ways to stay the same.

I have yet to conger up a reason to acknowledge my own birthday. Admitting that I am a year older, whatever that really means since time is a human concept and really doesn’t have concrete meaning, doesn’t make me wiser, doesn’t make me more compassionate, and generally speaking doesn’t make me a better person. Therefore, I have decided that I will no longer acknowledge/recall my own birthday and instead will use those neurons to try and better myself.

HAPPY BATHDAY!

My birthday isn’t actually happening for a couple of months; I’m just engaging in a little preemptive whining. But thanks, j-a.

Z – I like your approach … except it sounds like you’re missing out on birthday cake. Once you solve the birthday cake problem, though, I think you’ve got the perfect solution.

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