I've been outted. At our monthly all-staff meeting the other day, before attending to the business at hand, I was asked to stand. It was my birthday and I found myself the center of attention. Suddenly, in that way-too-bright spotlight someone asked how old I was.
Instinctively, I dodged the question with this quick retort: "Well, my children think I'm 45." The group laughed and finally, I fessed up: I was 58. I said it proudly as only a card-carrying AARP member should. A low-level gasp permeated the room, finished with a touch of polite applause. My years of workplace subterfuge had finally come to an end.
Every year I am faced with the same dilemma: I want to look forward to celebrating my birthday just so: perfect gifts and the perfect adoration from family and a few close friends, just like I did when I was seven. Remember when the month leading up to your special day was exciting? The night before you counted down the hours to your birthday party. Okay, I've matured just a bit and like to give a little back each year.
But as I inch ever closer to gizzerhood, this tick in time doesn't fit me as well as it used to. Like the zillions who have come before me I will reply when asked how it feels to be a year older: "I don't feel any different." And like my predecessors I will ask myself: "How did I get to be so old?" I fingered the gold watch they would give me on retirement.
Gifts from my coworkers trickled in throughout the rest of the day; people stopped me in the halls to wish me a Happy Birthday and some stopped by my cubicle to marvel at how well preserved I was. More than once I heard "I am shocked, totally shocked you are THAT OLD."
