32

Next week, I turn 32. It seems like such a strange age. There’s nothing particularly fetching about it.

I remember when I was a kid that every birthday had significance. I’m 8! I’m 9! Around 16, that loses its luster, and 21 signals the end of any serial counting. In fact, after 21, I started losing track of my age, and I often have to calculate it in my head before reporting it.

Certainly the decade milestones are noteworthy, but they’re spread out. Excitement with each year won’t happen again until 90. By then, everyone is so shocked that you’re still alive that each birthday is as exciting as when you were a kid. Grandpa’s 91! Grandpa’s 92! Everyone tries to make it to your party because you might not be around next year.

If I reach 90, I’m going retro with every year’s birthday. We’re having cakes made from pan molds of dinosaurs or He-Man. We’re going to have a McDonald’s birthday party. We’re going to Chuck E. Cheese's! My offspring should track down old items on eBay (or virtual eBay, whatever exists) so that I can get Castle Greyskull and Sgt. Slaughter all over again.

Don’t get me wrong. I still like birthdays. I just don’t get as excited about random ages. But that’s all going to change in 58 years…