Older: October, 2009

I didn’t plan on celebrating my birthday this month. I seriously considered disappearing for the weekend, dropping out, and laying low. I wouldn’t have Simone for the weekend (but I’d be able to collect her for a birthday dinner), I knew none of my friends had anything planned for me, and I wasn’t interested in drawing a lot of attention to the fact that I would be yet another year older.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the fact that life is good for me. But I find myself especially sensitive to the things that are slowly evaporating from possibility.

Like having another baby. I love Simone, and she’s all I need when it comes to offspring. But anytime I’m around babies and young children, I think about how much I would like to have another.

This is not a biological imperative, and I’m fully aware that Larry King had a kid well into his twilight years. But I don’t want to be that guy. I don’t want to be one of those old dads struggling to keep up with his youngster. 

But that’s not the real issue—I’m in good shape, and I don’t intend to let my body drift into entropy without a fight. I’m not worried about huffing and puffing while playing tag or wrestling on the floor.

The bigger issue is the idea of starting over. It would mean settling in and committing to a full 18 years of parenting before the nest is empty. I’m not looking forward to Simone growing up. I’m not in a rush to have her become a young adult and leave for college. But, at the same time, I know that, in nine years, I won’t have the same set of commitments I do now. I’ll be able to move away from Colorado, if I want to. Or travel without negotiating parenting schedules. Or start riding a motorcycle.

But If I were to have another child, I’d be resetting the clock back to 18 years.

That realization helps me in some ways, but it doesn’t totally negate the wistfulness I feel when I sniff the top of an infant’s head, or fly a 3-year-old around a playground. Of course, if I met the right woman, those 18 years could be a true gift.

So, yeah. I’m feeling a little sensitive about my age. It probably doesn’t help that all but one of my very best friends are both single and younger. The natural result is that my social circles skew younger, as do my dates. I’m not going out of my way to date younger women (I mean it!); I’m just more likely to cross paths with them, because of my lifestyle. But I see those creepy older guys in the bars, with their tired, too-hip clothes, bad hair, and wrinkly throats, and I get fearful. I need to find the right girl before I get to that point. Or at least make my friends promise they’ll smother me with a pillow (or stage an intervention) if they catch me eyeing puka shell necklaces or gold chains.

Fortunately, I’m not noticing serious physical signs of aging, other than the stray gray sideburn hair. And I’m still the only one of my friends who doesn’t tend to suffer after a big night out. But I am definitely aware of mental changes — a lower threshold for bullshit, for instance, or less patience for my friends’ drama. It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes sometimes.

It’s not that I’m any wiser than they are (mostly), but sometimes I just want to say, “I don’t have time for this crap. Grow up. Calm down. You’ll be fine.”

You can say you’re only as old as you think you are, or that age is just a number, but there are still times when the measurement of how long it’s been since you found your way into this world has implications. 

I was all too aware of those implications in the days leading up to my birthday, which is why I didn’t make plans. Part of me secretly hoped that one of my friends would insist on organizing something, but my ambivalence grew as the weekend approached. I started to cringe with the arrival of each new birthday cards in the mailbox.

When my buddy EJ texted me to find out where I wanted to go for my birthday, I didn’t know how to respond at first. I kept my answers vague, but he was persistent, and we finally came up with a plan. He was actually kind of insulted that I thought my birthday could be ignored.

And, wow, it was a truly spectacular weekend—a steady reminder of just how fortunate I am. I went out Friday night with one of my oldest friends (who shares the same birthday as I do) and ended up on a hilarious adventure until the wee hours of the morning. The next morning, after a healthy breakfast, I made tracks for the gym, in order to work off the night before and prepare for the one to follow. 

I love my friends, but I was not prepared for the turnout at the bar that night. They came to help us celebrate, rolling in and out in waves, with a core group sticking together until early the next morning, four or five of us eating transcendent street corner barbecue beef brisket while the mooks and the butt-heads jostled each other on the sidewalks. 

And that wasn’t the end of the celebration, because Sunday, my actual birthday, brought a guys’ brunch at one of my favorite restaurants, followed by a Broncos win, and then the best thing of all— a father-daughter birthday dinner.

Simone had chosen to dress for dinner, and she looked so grown-up and sophisticated when I picked her up at her mom’s. We went to the new Brazilian steakhouse, and did some serious damage to the array of meats they brought to the table—skewers of filet mignon; gorgeous, charred cuts of beef; leg of lamb and lamb chops. They’d ask Simone how she liked her cuts, and she’d answer, “As rare as possible.” We laughed as we ate, incredulous at the piles of red meat in front of us. 

That night, after dropping the girl back off with her mom, I turned on the TV and stretched out on the couch. I silently wished I could have been cuddling with someone, reliving the utter joys of the weekend between kisses, but I also felt a peaceful satisfaction with a couple hours of just me time before bed. 

And, as I dozed off that night, wrapped up in sheets and comforter, I realized it didn’t really matter that I’d passed another mile marker; with such a magical network of love and support surrounding me, it made sense to celebrate.

Comments

[ja]

Best entry yet.

[betweenfinishandstart.blogspot.com]

Eric, a great post that I connected with in so many ways. I really like your use of "resetting the clock back to 18 years". I was faced with that decision and had to let go of a woman I can only describe as the love of my life. As much as I wanted to feel only as old as I think, reality got in the way and I envisioned those 18 years as a constant struggle, not a gift. I had to let her go.

I hope things work out for you in the choices you face! And Happy Birthday!

[Juan P. Steibel]

Hello,
Thanks for the post. Being a 36 y.o single dad of a 10 y.o. daughter who is giving up on the idea of having another baby ever, I can see myself reflected on it.

As a note of color, I'm copying a poem by Uruguayan poet Mario Bennedetti (and my translation)

Síndrome
Todavía tengo casi todos mis dientes
casi todos mis cabellos y poquísimas canas
puedo hacer y deshacer el amor
trepar una escalera de dos en dos
y correr cuarenta metros detrás del ómnibus
o sea que no debería sentirme viejo
pero el grave problema es que antes
no me fijaba en estos detalles

Syndrome
I still have almost all my teeth
almost all my hair and very little gray
I can do and undo love
climb stair steps on a two-by-two
and run forty yards behind the bus
so I should not feel old
But the serious problem is
I did not use to think about this

Cheers!
JP

[Dafna Michaelson]

Very well written Eric. I so feel your baby conflict. As a chic, I guess I have to pay attention to the clock thing that guys can technically get around. Totally thrilled with my two kids...but nothing beats the feel of a baby sleeping on your chest. My b-day is in two weeks...
Good luck on your quest!