There was
something floating around the internet yesterday about men who treat their
birthdays like any other day.
It said these men are used to doing life
alone. They don't need much fuss and they tend to give more than they receive.
They have learned how to create their own happiness and instead of measuring
life by birthdays, they measure it by whether they are still growing.
I read this story and thought
that somebody has been spying on me. When I turned sixty this past
summer, I spent weeks making everyone think I was planning some sort of
extravaganza.
"Sixty! I’m sure Jumbo is going
to throw a party for his sixtieth. He always threw Christmas parties and Mardi
Gras parties back in the day."
There would be a great mix of people,
noise, drinks, and outlandish stories. There will probably be somebody doing
something stupid that would eventually become another Morning Chalkboard tale.
Instead, when July 1st arrived, I got dressed
up and took myself out and had a steak dinner, Han Solo, and I had a memorable
evening.
That probably sounds strange to some people
but not to me. I am an only child, I learned a long time ago that being alone
and being lonely are two completely different things.
I do not have brothers or sisters, my
parents are in heaven, and I have a spouse who is an ex. I know a shit ton of
people, but I don't have that one close friend who gets an emergency phone call
at two in the morning. Let alone planning a 60th birthday party.
The groups of people I have spent time with
over the years are slowly doing what people eventually do, they drift apart.
Families become empty nests. Retirements
are starting to trickle in. Different towns, different routines, different
lives…
Nobody is doing anything wrong. Life
just keeps moving the furniture around. That is why birthdays were
never a huge production for me.
I remember one or two birthday parties when
I was a kid growing up. For my seventeenth birthday, my mom bought me tickets
to an Indianapolis Indians game. For my twenty-first birthday, my Oldman bought me
dinner and margaritas at La Majada in Oak Park. At thirty, I went to a White
Sox game with my Wild Turkey buddies.
And my fifty-first birthday?
That one came with a particularly unusual
present, my marriage ended. That July 1st became the opening
act for what would eventually become my Felix Unger Day.
Quite a birthday candle to blow out, but
here is the thing.
None of those memories make me
sad, quite the opposite.
They remind me that somewhere along the way
I learned something of great value.
I know how to keep myself company and that might be one of the great gifts of being an only
child.
You learn how to read, how to think, how
to wander, how to listen to the radio and how to sit quietly by yourself.
You learn how to go somewhere without needing
somebody sitting beside you. How to walk into a restaurant and say, "Table
for one please," and not whisper it like you are confessing to a
crime.
I have gone to ballgames alone,
restaurants alone, bars alone, church alone, concerts alone, movies alone, and road trips alone.
The funny part of it is wherever I go
somewhere alone, I rarely stay alone long.
Now autumn has arrived, maybe that is why
this is on my mind this morning.
Fall has always felt less like an ending to
me and more like an inventory. Summer throws everything outside and Autumn
brings it all back in.
The screens come down and the storm windows
go back up. The days get shorter and shadows grow longer. Leaves begin
surrendering from their branches and we start preparing for winter.
I am going to do a little of that myself
this year. I have had enough noise and running around. This fall I am going to
prepare the cave.
Books piled up next to my chair. Writing all
hours of the day. A radio constantly on in the kitchen. Football and hockey take over baseball.
Hot meal in the Crockpot. Prayers and swearing, more swearing, and more
praying. Early mornings with a pot of coffee and the occasional martini and
Manhattan.
When winter arrives full force, I may very
well disappear into my little corner of Riverside and hibernate until spring of
2027. Not because I am hiding from life, but because I rather enjoy reinventing life.
There is an important distinction.
Loneliness is wanting someone to show up.
Solitude is realizing you already did. Somewhere in these first sixty years I
learned that I don't need balloons hanging from the ceiling to know I had a
good year.
I do not need people singing Happy
Birthday to know I matter. I don't need a crowded calendar to prove I have a
life.
The scoreboard is simpler now.
Did I grow?
Did I learn
something?
Did I help
somebody?
Did I laugh?
Did I remain
curious?
Did I stay
grateful?
Did I use the day
I was given?
If the answer is yes,
put another mark on the board.
So welcome, Autumn. I
will gather some firewood. Stack some books. Turn up the jazz. Watch the leaves
come down. Prepare for winter and continue this strange, wonderful experiment
of being perfectly capable of sitting alone while remaining completely available
to the world.
Because after all, I know exactly what I am
bringing with me. Not my pronouns or any titles. Not the number of candles on a
cake. I am bringing my adjectives…. Gregarious and Grateful.
… And as long as I have those two
things, I suspect there will always be somebody to talk to, something to marvel
at, and another reason to get out of bed tomorrow morning. Even if I crawl
right back into the cave at sunset.
Happy Autumn.
Get out there today with gusto and
astonishment and do not forget to put a smile on the sun.
