I’ve noticed that, for me at least, as the years trundle by, birthdays take on different meanings. Needless to say, I remember nothing about my first birthday. But it was probably fun. I was likely excited by the gift-wrap being torn on my behalf, the presents being rattled in front of me, and the blur of adults making a fuss over me.
What one-year-old kid doesn’t love getting gifts and having adults make a fuss over him? Nevertheless, I doubt I had a clue what the hell the excitement was about.
After that, particularly once I got past my toddler years, I started to realize what birthdays were all about. I knew, tangibly knew, that with each birthday I was legally entitled to call myself one year older than I could the day before, without any fear of being arrested for doing so. (Yes, I worried about stupid stuff like that even at a young age. And I’m much worse now. I’ve had many years to perfect my neuroses.)
As if being legally one year older than the day before wasn’t great enough, there were relatives and friends at my birthday parties. (Yes, I had friends back then. Not many. But a few.) And I got presents, ice cream, birthday cake, and hot dogs.
Of course, the hot dogs were made of unmentionable meat byproducts. And our parents gave them to us only to keep us humble. But the joke was on them. We had no idea that they were supposed to keep us humble. We thought hot dogs were special.
13th Birthday
Then came my thirteenth birthday. That taught me the true meaning of the phrase “abject fear.” You see, my tribe insisted that on my thirteenth birthday, or rather the Saturday closest to my thirteenth birthday as measured by a lunar calendar, I had to stand in front of a crowd of people and chant a portion of the Torah in a language I didn’t understand.
To understand just how traumatic this was for me you have to know that I used to break into a cold sweat, quickly followed by a hot sweat, and then a scorching sweat that was accompanied by violent shakes whenever I had to speak in front of a crowd of more than one or two people. Yet my Bar Mitzvah took place in the biggest synagogue in Toronto.
Two or three (I don’t remember which) other boys had their Bar Mitzvahs on the same day as mine. So, counting my family and friends, the other Bar Mitzvah boys’ families and friends, and all of those people who, for reasons I never comprehended, attended services every Saturday, there were easily a few hundred people scrutinizing my performance. It seemed like a million to me, but it was likely well under a thousand or, at very worst, a little more than a thousand.
Choral Cowering
And we mustn’t forget the chanting. The need to chant rather than speak the Torah portion petrified me more than the rote memorization required to get the words out successfully.
You see, singing was never my thing. At all. For instance, my grade-six teacher entered our class in a choir competition. One of the competition rules was that everyone in the class had to be part of the choir. No exceptions.
My teacher told me to lip-synch. I wish I was joking about that. That’s how bad a singing voice I had and still have. Think about this. My grade six teacher was worried that my still small voice would ruin the chances of a choir that included twenty to thirty—I forget precisely how many—other mostly prepubescent voices.
Getting back to my Bar Mitzvah, I lost my place while chanting my Torah portion. The couple of ancient guys mumbling in my ear trying to get me back on track didn’t make it any more enjoyable. But I did eventually reach the finish line
The service wasn’t a fun time, but the party that evening was great. And the Bar Mitzvah presents were terrific. So there were compensations for the terror of the service. And, today I am a man, or words to that effect.
After the 13th
After my thirteenth birthday, birthdays turned into occasions to celebrate being one year closer to the time when I’d be able, without the fear of serious repercussions, to tell adults to go to hell when they told me to do something.
Then, I finally did become a full-fledged adult. Eventually, I moved out of my parents’ house. Then, I actually could tell other adults to go to hell without serious repercussions. At that point, my birthday sentiment became, “Jeez, that wasn’t nearly as exhilarating as I thought it would be. Who the hell’s going to give me cake and presents now that I’m on my own?”
After that phase, birthdays morphed into me waking up and saying, “What the hell day is it? Oh yeah, it’s one day after yesterday. Well, I might as well get on with it.”
The Dreaded 40th Birthday
There was one gap in this phase: my fortieth birthday or, to be more precise, the year or so leading up to and including my fortieth birthday. For a reason that is still unknown to me, during that period I learned the true meaning of the phrase “abject depression.” My fortieth hit me extremely hard.
With the exception of that fortieth birthday depression interlude, my “might as well get on with it” stage has lasted well more than a few decades. It continues still.
Nevertheless, I know what the next phase will be. It’s so close I can see it. The next birthday stage is going to be the “well, that’s another year done without dying” phase.
That sounds like a depressing way to celebrate your birthday, but I hope that phase lasts a very long time because I think I know what the one after that will be.
My final birthday phase will probably be the “Damn! Another birthday. When the hell are they ever going to end? Enough, already!” phase.
I’m not looking forward to that period. My one hope is that by then I’ll be so senile that my final birthdays will be much like my first: adults fussing over me, changing my diaper, and giving me cake, but I won’t have a clue as to what the excitement is about.
If you happen to be reading this on your birthday, have a very happy one! Unless, of course, you are in the same stage of life as I am, in which case, forget I mentioned it. Tomorrow is another day.
