Mirrors and Birthdays

I got the shock of my life the other day: I saw this strange-looking guy in my house. He was bald, he was grey, and he was just a teensy-weensy bit overweight. He was also very rude: Every time I talked to him, he talked at the same time. He was me – I was looking in a mirror.

You probably got that already, but I thought I would try to fool you. If anyone told me a few years ago that I would be grey and bald at fifty-four-years-old, I would have clobbered him with my cane. My crown reminds me of the prairies that I have adopted, namely, the grey skies and the bare grassland.

My three older brothers are not nearly as bald or grey as I am. It probably has something to do with the rain back on the Coast. We all know that regular irrigation makes crops grow better. And greener. Well, their hair isn't that green – just a word picture, okay?

I don't feel 54. But how do you feel any age? One can feel full or feel cold or feel lonely, but can one feel one's age? To be sure, I can't run as fast as I once did; I get more winded than I used to; I enjoy getting to bed in good time; and I keep on using the term "kids" when I am referring to anyone under 40.

They tried to bring my birthday cake on a low-bed but the axle broke. They tried to light the candles but the flames scorched the ceiling. They brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh – no, that's a different story. I didn't know if the fire extinguisher was a gift or a precaution.

For that matter, I had more fun playing with the empty boxes after the guests left. How do you get excited about socks, ties and a DVD - "Grumpy Old Men"?

Seriously – well, sort of – I take birthdays with a grain of salt (or is it memory pills?). I just forget. I don't get too excited about birthdays anymore. I don't feel this old – or did I say that already? I am still a big kid inside, but I am not allowed to show it – not in my home, not in my classroom, not in my church, and certainly not at Toys-R-Us.

One of the troubles with "maturing" is that one may have a lot of the same needs, anxieties, hang-ups, and quirks that one had at, say, twenty, but circumstances forbid letting them out. Too many others are looking to me (and you, too) for leadership and support. I suppose one must learn to choose where to let his hair down (in my case, that would be a figure of speech).

The Good Book speaks of an outward man and an inward man – as one is slowing down, the other is not. This is not a gender thing; rather, it is a physical versus character argument. In today's vernacular we might say (possibly tongue-in-cheek): I'm not getting older, I'm getting better. Yes, I know that may smack of pride, but there still should be some truth to it.

Maturing versus immaturity, growing up but not simply growing old: these should mark the people of my generation. I don't need to look, think, or act like I twenty-years-old again. It strikes me as a sad commentary when middle-aged people try to recover their lost childhood. In other words, grannies in bellbottoms just don't do it for me.

So, happy birthday to me. I need to change the image of that guy in the mirror. I've got it: I'm going to throw away the mirror.