Later this month I turn thirty-three, followed by our eighth wedding anniversary.
When we lived in Portland I always threw myself a party and an astonishing number of people would show up. Like most of my parties, I often did not know most of the guests.
I used to think the parties took the edge off the persistent existential crisis of the event which is not just my birthday but also the anniversary of being diagnosed with cancer – the darkest part of the year – but it never actually worked. I just ended up with more cleaning chores and a deeper confusion about the experience of friendship.
Other people born this week have always told me that I should give up the parties completely. They try to hide the fact of their birth date or quietly resist celebrations. I have decided those friends were right all along. Winter is depressing.
So I’ll turn thirty-three and tell a few funny stories about birthdays in the past. But the existential crisis will have to fulminate without the benefit of guests to distract me.
I’ve also decided to move my wedding anniversary. It is an arbitrary marker of a legal contract. I think we’ll push the date back to May and recognize the anniversary of moving to Seattle instead.