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Why are birthdays a big deal? It had me wondering about the sanity of humans. A male pal refuses to take phone calls as he hates being reminded he’s a year older.
Another guy wants to call in a rabbi to do a quick bris on me because in an article I mistakenly added a year to his age. I mean, he’s in his seventies, so what does a year or two matter? Will family and friends treat him with less respect? Or dent his sexual ego?
In our thirties we worry about what the world thinks of us. In our fifties we realise that nobody actually gives a damn. Seventies? We’re off the map, ou swaer.
And we’re called Oom by pretty young ones. Low blow. Cruel.
My parents couldn’t care a fig about birthdays. Too busy being poor, sweating to feed, clothe and educate us kids. And no time to worry about another added year.
I recall my younger sister once remembering my mom’s birthday. At breakfast she wished her, with us mumbling along.
Her reaction? An unsmiling, “So what? Eat your pap!”
Anniversaries are also taken seriously. My Heidi’s family are very conscious of what they consider an epoch-making event. To me, more like life-changing.
Heidi has continued this tradition and it’s only when it slipped my mind one year that I realised just how significant she considers it. It’s now become part of my New Year resolutions.
Came across this piece, illustrating the dilemma some men face. Thankfully, not me, OK.
A woman awakes during the night to find that her husband is not in bed. She goes downstairs and finds him sitting at the kitchen table. He’s deep in thought, staring at the wall. He wipes away a tear.
“What’s the matter, dear?” she whispers. The husband looks up and says. “Do you remember 25 years ago when we were dating, and you were only 16?”
“Yes I do.”
“Remember when your father caught us in the back seat of my car making love?”
“Remember when he shoved the shotgun in my face and said, either you marry my daughter, or I’ll send you to jail for 25 years?”
“I would have gotten out today.” Eina!
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