thirty-fun

learning to appreciate dulcinea

The wind is chilling, the leaves are falling… and wouldn’t you know it, we’re halfway through October and the decade! It’s a superbly liminal time for a frustratingly liminal man to enter into a formidably liminal epoch—to wit, his thirty-first year.

No I’m not telling you the exact day. I can’t allow myself to get doxx’d in the midst of my weird postmodern era. That would be unsatisfying for everyone.

But far more importantly, I don’t want any of you wishing me happy birthday.

And don’t get it twisted—this isn’t a passive-aggressive game and has literally nothing to do with “not wanting to be the center of attention.” I mean, haven’t you met me? I obviously can’t get enough of being triumphed and celebrated. Being the center of attention is fantastic. But only for the things I’ve accomplished.

*That* is why I abhor birthdays. They’re not about *what you did,* so much as *what you are*. Like you’re a woman. And even then birthdays don’t celebrate good traits like beauty or charm…it’s just a grotesque participation trophy everyone gets by default.

But speaking of women, I do understand why they love birthdays, even well past the age where this sort of thing is ever tolerated in men. Chicks want to be accepted / cherished unconditionally and frequently reminded of their intrinsic value. But men prefer to be celebrated for the things we provide by contingency; we want to be useful, capable, imposing—respectable.

And so I’d much rather a girl hate my guts but see me as competent than “cherish” me. Yet birthdays are mostly about being cherished in this very passive and unagentic and frivolous way, and that’s why I generally hate them.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on the presents. For women and children that’s all fine and you should absolutely give them something they’ll like. But if you’re a grown ass man and ever find yourself upset by the quantity or quality of your birthday gifts then you simply have to realize you’ve lost the plot.

Your gift is being able to give them gifts. And that is also your power.

Another thing: the well-wishes are always transparently fake. Where were you people when I penned that brilliant essay or wrote that deep and soulful ballad drenched in introspective subtext or walked to the grocery store? That’s what you ought to be celebrating me for, and certainly not for having been born on October the whateverth.

But that wouldn’t do, because if we threw a party whenever Walt wrote a splendid article it would inevitably bruise the precious fee-fees of his ankle-biters and naysayers, who wouldn’t receive half as many trips to Chuck-E-Cheese in their own right. And so we’re curtailed by this brutal leveling Earth Mammy impulse to give everyone their own “special day,” which inevitably means that nobody’s day is special anymore—at least not in any meaningful sense.

I’ve always despised the idea of a “special day,” because I noticed as a kid that in practice it meant that birthday boys and girls could get away with all kinds of fucked up behavior that other kids couldn’t. “Oh don’t be mean to Julio, it’s his birthday!” No fuck Julio, he should be deported, he’s a piece of shit and everyone knows it but we’re not allowed to say anything because of this asinine temporary status designation.

But even when he loathes a social script your Walter is nothing if not adaptable. And that’s why I’ve proactively applied this very tactic several times over the course of my career (and have had it used against me just as frequently!). You can brandish your birthday like a weapon against tyrannical bosses who expect you to work or gossipy girls who spend all day talking shit. Hell, there are times a boss will delay an uncomfortable conversation simply because he doesn’t want to come after you on your birthday… but by the time he feels comfortable doing so, the issue will have faded!

Probably the one context where the actual date of your birth might prove significant.

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Anyway that’s all there is to it. Really.

I mean, 31 is literally one of the least important birthdays there is. I suppose if I had to analyze it I’d say that while 29 was miserable and 30 liberating, 31 simply… is.

It sees the fantasy of a glamorous and confident life in your thirties fade away as you realize you’re racing towards 40 with your priorities in flux—not infrequently in a way that makes you worse at your job / more awkward around women than you once were.

But you might simultaneously realize you’ve already had enough pussy to last five lifetimes and usually struggle to deem it worth the attendant resource expenditure. Meanwhile your attitude toward climbing the career ladder is even less charitable.

Instead you’ll find yourself animated by rather more complex desires: a burning drive to make life less torturous and discombobulating for younger men; a perpetual thirst for artistic exploration liberated from insipid status jockeying; a ferocious commitment to self-awareness and authenticity…

…and perhaps even an earnest and uncomplicated impulse to win the Maiden’s favor.