They say the only thing worse than having a thirty-sixth birthday is not having a thirty-sixth birthday. I say the only thing worse is having a thirty-sixth birthday on a Wednesday. Nothing like having the long, slow march towards death kick off on the most boring day of the week.
If I could comically throw my back out, or get asked if I want the AARP discount at a restaurant, that would at least make growing past middle age interesting. (I smoke, so 70 is likely my limit). Instead, the day just ticks over like any other one, showing how it’s all dull and inevitable. And at midnight I got a dozen happy birthday e-mail messages from message boards I signed up for years ago and forgot about, which is like hearing ghostly pre-recorded radio broadcasts after an apocalypse.
Because I’m a shameless Apple whore, I’ve been watching all the iPhone videos. They’re hosted by a vaguely eerie man in a black turtleneck on a black background, making awkward hand motions as if he were doing a grotesque impersonation of real human movement. Assuming he’s not an alien, I would have thought of him as my elder. The type of guy I’d instinctively call “sir.” If I were at a big company, he’d clearly be my boss — not the owner, but someone who’d been around long enough to be in middle management. He probably owns a house in the South Bay, drives his Passat to the Apple campus every day, comes home to a house with at least two iPhoto-ready children.
In the video about activation, he has to enter his birthdate to register his phone, and he claims he’s three years younger than me.