10.22.76

This will sound ridiculously childish, and I’ve tried to kick the habit, but when my eyes happen to fall on a digital clock bearing the numbers 10:22, my birthdate, I stop for a minute, smile, and think about life. There might be one person reading this who will testify that I sometimes do a little dance too. But the run-up to my actual birthday always involves a good bit of excitement and some reflection.

Long gone are the days when your birthday seems like a national holiday. As a kid, maybe you do have to go to school, but you go there with cake and soda, and everyone gathers around to sing to you. And the parties. How happy was I with pizza and bowling and a million kids running around our neighbor's restaurant? And the presents. Piles of presents. A white box from a department store would yield a terrible moan from the kiddy crowd: "Clothes!" Toys were of course the coveted prize.

Sometime around the age of 15 it becomes apparent that the Earth does not revolve around you on your birthday. I took the PSAT's one October 22nd. College years will be the last time of instant gatherings of friends. Before you know it, you're sobbing in your cubicle, wondering if there could possibly be a worse way to misspend your youth.

For those of us born on the Libra-Scorpio cusp, any pleasant birthday musings come to an abrupt halt shortly after the big day. While the week before is filled with some excitement for me (it’s the 19th, it’s the 20th, we’re getting there!), the days following remind me of the thing gone: the 23rd (still sort of close), the 24th (not my day at all) the 25th (moving on). This inexorable passage of time is not softened by the fact that by this late in the year, we have all fallen into the tar pit of Winter. Did I ever leave the house without a coat and hat? Were my feet ever not freezing? Whatever joy or reflection I feel as I mark another year too easily slips into mind-buckling rage.

Bear with me, reader, as I rant and rave.

Birthdays do not need to be sacred. How many times have I worked on my birthday? But all I ask from the universe, is that my birthday not suck. October 22, 2005, however, had one too many drawbacks. Yes, I had my beloved Vietnamese noodle soup with a lovely friend in the afternoon. Had I done nothing else on that day, I would have gone to sleep happy. But no, although I had looked forward for years to having my birthday on a Saturday, I worked again. A six and a half hour fundraising event that involved me standing around in new uncomfortable shoes, pressing the flesh, and sitting through one too many pitches for donations.

OK, cry me a river. The meal was lovely (steak!), and I like getting dressed up. But at the end of the evening, someone had walked off with my makeup bag. Small emotional loss, but, as I would find out with my first paycheck, replacing the items in the bag would cost me about a half week’s salary. (That is, makeup is ridiculously expensive and I am ridiculously underpaid.) This salary issue is going to come back to bite me. I am 100% committed to grantwriting: it’s creative, interesting, and by non-profit standards, well paid. But here in Boston, although the cost of living is the same as in New York, and the salaries are the same as in Guadalajara.

The fact that I walked home from the event in the freezing rain and was so bone tired that I couldn’t drag myself to a friend’s party also didn’t help create a happy birthday.

For this reason, perhaps, I am somehow more inclined to "celebrate," or at least ponder, little ole me when my numbers come up on the clock rather than the calendar. During my little me-minutes, I think about birthdays past and future, of the me that was and the entirely different one I will become. Of events and people and experiences I can't even imagine right now, that will eventually be memories for another 10.22 moment long down the road. I think of how different I am already from the last birthday, and the one before that. And I give thanks for everyone and everything that I have. But best of all, celebrating yourself by the clock only takes 60 seconds, and unlike a birthday, there's no sense of imperative to have a good time, have some cake, and make the moment outstanding from all the rest. A birthday is just like any other day, but all days are extraordinary.

10.22.76. Just some digits for some other human being. Once a year – but more importantly, twice a day – it’s as if Time greets me personally, kisses me on the cheek and sends me on my way. I'm not the only one to attach importance to these numbers. Just recently, 1,022.76 appeared in my bank account, a way too generous birthday gift from my dear ole dad. Here’s hoping that next year he’ll make it Y2K compliant.