So you say it's my birthday...

A thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday. Birthdays always seemed a little weird to me. It's not like I feel I did anything to deserve a celebration. Or if I did I don't remember it. But they tell me I was there. I even have a government document to prove it. And to avoid suspicion, it's from a state other than Hawaii. I have all the requirements to be president…

Birthdays are important to women. I have learned this because I live with five of them – well, the five month old doesn't really participate yet, though she is manifesting her double X chromosome status more and more. I expect hugs and kisses next birthday. Evidently birthdays are important to women because they are a celebration of you. Your birthday is special because you're special. I confess to enjoying being surrounded by women. As far as my boys, this is the conversation with my oldest son. "Birthday, Dad?" "Yep." "Cool. Well, I'm headed out for Edinboro now." He got it all in – acknowledgement, validation and detachment. That's the XY for you. My next oldest son probably thinks my birthday is next week or something – but he's in middle school. They're pretty clueless at that age. Besides, he's too young to drive to another town. If he acknowledges he'll have to celebrate with the clan females who are making a day of it.

I just can't believe that next year I'm entering a new demographic. The one that is just above decomposing when you fill out those surveys and warranty cards. The one where people never again will say, "But you're still young." Well, my father will still say it. He calls anyone born 5 minutes after him a "kid", as in, "Oh, he's just a kid." I was buying something in Wal-Mart and the warning ding went off. Is customer over 21? The register asked. The cashier didn't even look up. I asked, "Aren't you going to card me?" It was a joke. She laughed. Which was fine. It just wasn't fine as she was still laughing as I was walking out the door. It wasn't that funny, lady.

I know I'm never going to play a professional sport, that milestone was passed a couple decades ago. Now I wonder if I'm going to be able to get up to the stadium seating anymore (those are the only seats I can afford). Not only is the Everest-like ascent more difficult to the windpipes, I also need to be concerned about my feet now; my doctor told me so. I think I could summon more concern if I could actually see my feet. They're harder to find these days. I think it must be my eyes. My wife tells me I just have an obstruction – whatever that means.

And they tell me that I have to be more and more concerned about what I eat. Remember the Democratic National Convention nutrition police? To eat healthy you need colors, they said. The food police created the menu where the plates were filled with healthy bright colors, not just your greens, but yellows, reds and browns. I'm alright with that. Just give me a plate of M&Ms. Not healthy enough? Then I'll take the Skittles – they are after all fruit chews.

Well, I'm not going to whine anymore about it. I'll just enjoy my last year of "youth" and my 20 years of middle age. I understand that after that there is a new set of concerns. You worry more about what's coming out than what's going in. Either way, the journey is worth it. I sit here typing with one hand as my baby girl bounces on my knee. Behind me I can hear my youngest son play with his dinosaurs as Littlefoot and Petri run away from Sharptooth. The girls are upstairs laughing at some teenage faux pas. My wife is in the kitchen bustling into her dinner preparations. I am a blessed man. If the price of living life is the loss of youth then it is a price worth paying.