With the exception of those New Year's babies who have it by way of pure coincidence, there are no ball drops for the Average Joe's personal breathing anniversary. When we're little, our moms fill the minivans for us and drop us off for bowling or laser tag with pizza and cake waiting at the other end. Our friends' moms buy us cards and gifts and after a number of years, our own friends have enough money themselves to get us shamefully drunk. Sometimes we get laid. Mostly we just hope pictures of the event are not posted on social media.
If one's thirty-third birthday is remarkable for anything, and it really shouldn't be, it would be as one in life's LMNOP sequence. Like the corresponding Scrabble tiles, the age suggests a potentially versatile and valuable contribution to the Big Board. It's also indicative of one of those final opportunities to mount an offensive; while a lucky few can score with Q, V, or Z, most are left without a play.
Thirty-three, like LMNOP, is part of an anonymous run. For the birthday itself, if not at L, then certainly by P, the transition should pass from getting drunk to grabbing dinner. You take solace in the fact that quarterbacks still playing at your age are at the prime of their game. You should no longer be in denial that whatever it is you're at the prime of, nobody is paying to see it. There should be some semblance of a life around you and if you are worth being measured, it is because you have built that life yourself. Your first notions that you already are Horatio Alger can begin around this age, if they apply.
I muse, I wonder, I reflect, and I still project on these very first few minutes of my own thirty-third birthday. I have the time. I will spend it in the company of the one person I am fortunate to know and scan social media to gather best wishes from the rest. The whole experience will be a reminder that the life I have built, in its immediate form, is still in its very nascent stages. The Whole Endeavor seems to be a gamble on the end game and we're far enough along that many of my co-players are nervous on my behalf. Make a show of it, they think. Quit trying to shoot the moon and just take the points that are resting on the table, they say. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't chewing a bit on my fingernails and guessing what's on my opponents' tiles.
The strategy remains the same. There's still a few triple word scores remaining, a couple triple letters, and I'm not willing to concede that I haven't already been dealt the tiles and that ZVXQ is not a word. Happy birthday to me, it's my turn. I'll eschew the Easy Play once again and keep playing for the big prize. Sing along, if you wish.
If one's thirty-third birthday is remarkable for anything, and it really shouldn't be, it would be as one in life's LMNOP sequence. Like the corresponding Scrabble tiles, the age suggests a potentially versatile and valuable contribution to the Big Board. It's also indicative of one of those final opportunities to mount an offensive; while a lucky few can score with Q, V, or Z, most are left without a play.
Thirty-three, like LMNOP, is part of an anonymous run. For the birthday itself, if not at L, then certainly by P, the transition should pass from getting drunk to grabbing dinner. You take solace in the fact that quarterbacks still playing at your age are at the prime of their game. You should no longer be in denial that whatever it is you're at the prime of, nobody is paying to see it. There should be some semblance of a life around you and if you are worth being measured, it is because you have built that life yourself. Your first notions that you already are Horatio Alger can begin around this age, if they apply.
I muse, I wonder, I reflect, and I still project on these very first few minutes of my own thirty-third birthday. I have the time. I will spend it in the company of the one person I am fortunate to know and scan social media to gather best wishes from the rest. The whole experience will be a reminder that the life I have built, in its immediate form, is still in its very nascent stages. The Whole Endeavor seems to be a gamble on the end game and we're far enough along that many of my co-players are nervous on my behalf. Make a show of it, they think. Quit trying to shoot the moon and just take the points that are resting on the table, they say. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't chewing a bit on my fingernails and guessing what's on my opponents' tiles.
The strategy remains the same. There's still a few triple word scores remaining, a couple triple letters, and I'm not willing to concede that I haven't already been dealt the tiles and that ZVXQ is not a word. Happy birthday to me, it's my turn. I'll eschew the Easy Play once again and keep playing for the big prize. Sing along, if you wish.
No comments:
Post a Comment