Happy Birthday to Me

I remember turning 25 and writing in my journal that it was an age that expected maturity. Today I am 36, a number that is closer to 40 than 30, closer to mid-life crisis than college. Jesus, after all, had already changed the world permanently and been dead for 3 years by this age. I, on the other hand, change at a different rate. Not having started out perfect, I think, had something to do with that. If 25 expected maturity, I really am not sure what 36 expects. I am quite sure that it is not maturity. I gave up the maturity kick a while ago, and things seem to be going better. It is, after all, a virtue of diminishing returns. At some certain point, around the middle of your life, it is better to start working in the opposite direction. Were you to pursue it throughout your whole life you would find yourself a stodgy old rule maker, a critic of all new ideas and possibly a turtleneck wearer. Aged but not seasoned. More old, but not more wise. That is why I plan on watching South Park from here on out.

Because of my impressive maturity I now have to work for things that used to be easy. Like not getting fat. Part of my plan to not be fat and 40 at the same time is to run. It prevents fatness and makes me a hero. Here’s how: I take these two wiggly boys who have become rather un-cute to their mother by 3 in the afternoon, and put them in a Jogger and parade them by 4 miles worth of tourists at the beach, who’s comments I hear as I pass at my Special Olympics pace. By the time I come home, the babies are magically cute again to their mother and also I am a hero.

The true magic of the run though, is that I smile while I run now. It is really hard to smile and run, much harder than pushing a stroller into the wind. I used to groan my way through a run, thinking the whole way, how hard it is to run. Thinking how hard it is to breathe, to keep putting the next foot ahead of the other one and then do that again. And breathe. Now, I can do all that and smile too. It is nearly miraculous, how lucky I am. All these people go by me while I am running, unaware that they are my entertainment. Unaware of the soundtrack playing in my headphones, or of the people ahead and behind them who will also be a part of my little movie. The movie is about the same every day, but it is a good one. Only the characters change, the theme is always the same. A 4 mile string of people from all over the world all saying the same thing. The family from the Midwest who slow their 6-person surrey to coo. The girls from City College, smiling through the over sized sunglasses that someone decided were cool. The homeshcooling Mom wearing white Velcro Reeboks that she decided didn’t need to be cool. The Asian Family who forgets to get out of the bikeway as they rotate to watch the stroller pass. The scraggly and unaffected kids at the skate park even turn. The older man who lets out a smile through his bored look, the rich ladies on their coffee walk, the son who stops his rock throwing to look, and his mother collecting aluminum cans from public trash cans. They all have one thing in common. The little movie strip that passes by me is made up of people saying with their eyes, their comments, their uncontainable and unintentional half smiles, their rubbernecking walks, and swerving bikes that I am a Lucky father.

And then I come home a hero. As though I had performed a great service. Lucky me.


Ian.