First, I now know this because Wikipedia is wise, the Internets are wise, the cloud computer that is attaching itself to my brain is wise: an unbirthday is a literary reference! Well, isn’t that just classy?

I bring it up not so much because it is my unbirthday, but rather the opposite—last Friday was my birthday. I turned 38, which is fucking old. How do I know this? Evidence: I have reached that point in my baldness career (which, for me, has been a great success) at which one says hell with it, I’m shaving the whole damn thing off. And so I have. And JP asked me why I have no hair. And I told him—wait for it—don’t ask questions, boy, I’m your father.

Old!

Anyway, the real point of this post was to be that I don’t care much about my birthday, and I haven’t, not really, since JP was born. There’s a morale here, I believe, something about enlarged perspective, the humility (not humiliation) of parenting, the acceptance of things larger than oneself—but really, it’s just that I’m generally too busy and too tired to worry about silly things like who forgot to call me (Dad, Mom, and brother). I got a nice happy birthday from JP—who demanded to know what presents he was getting and why it wasn’t in fact his birthday—when he woke up, a nice gift from Tomoko, a giggle from Ellie, and that was that.

And I truly didn’t, and don’t, and won’t, care. I’m 38. I have no hair. Chocolate cake ain’t gonna make my hair come back. And yet, there’s something awfully nice about not caring, and about being more concerned that JP learn a lesson from my birthday (something about how it’s good to feel good for others on their special day) than garnering any special attention.

Now I will get back to watching football and drinking beer.