What took place were multiple "Happy Monday, dude!" followed by a wink or a nudge. I also ended up with the moniker of "The Monday Boy".
Yeah. Okay. That's about right.
I am The Monday Boy.
* * * * *
When I was younger there was an overly sensitive kid with a big fat belly in my second-grade class named Stuart White. His hair was whispy blonde, he cried quite regularly and he had three chins at the age of seven
When I was younger there was an overly sensitive kid with a big fat belly in my second-grade class named Stuart White. His hair was whispy blonde, he cried quite regularly and he had three chins at the age of seven
Actually, as I realize where the remainder of this childhood anecdote is heading, I think it would be best to change Stuart White's name in hopes of protecting his sensitive nature.
So okay, we'll begin again.
When I was younger there was an overly sensitive kid with a big fat belly in my second-grade class named Stevie Grey. His hair was whispy blonde, he cried quite regularly and he had three chins at the age of seven. *
So okay, we'll begin again.
When I was younger there was an overly sensitive kid with a big fat belly in my second-grade class named Stevie Grey. His hair was whispy blonde, he cried quite regularly and he had three chins at the age of seven. *
It was the weekend of my seventh birthday, and my parents thought it would be a good idea to throw a party and invite my classmates.
You'll notice I didn't use the term friends.
Birthday parties didn't get whittled down to friends until sixth or seventh grade. As long as the parents were calling all the shots, everyone got a damn invite,** even the kids I never talked to at all during the average school week because they were too busy nibbling on the contents of their nostrils got an invitation to all the birthday parties.
I won't name names as to who those nostril nibblers were, but if I were to name names, Stevie would be the first one I'd name.
So there we were, third floor of a North side apartment building in 1987 greeting the entire male population of Mrs. Ward's second grade class. At this point of the birthday party, only two things were going through my mind:
So there we were, third floor of a North side apartment building in 1987 greeting the entire male population of Mrs. Ward's second grade class. At this point of the birthday party, only two things were going through my mind:
1) "Jeez, I hope I manage to snag the piece of cake with my own name written in frosting later."
2) "How soon until everyone goes home?"
So what's my problem? Why so down on birthdays?
2) "How soon until everyone goes home?"
So what's my problem? Why so down on birthdays?
I just never understood them. Why does everyone deserve to celebrate their birth? Doesn't that take away from the idea of celebration? Shouldn't celebrations be centered around a major accomplishment?
The guy who eventually finds the cure for cancer, he should toss off a huge blowout. He should get good and drunk and sleep with his wife or have a one-night-stand with some sort of science groupie. He just cured cancer, he deserves to have a good night.
The Wright Brothers too. After they landed that plane and called their mom, I hope they invited all their friends over for a sweet barnburner, maybe a little bbq, a game of backyard volleyball.
Something. They invented flight. They deserve a few accolaides.
But the rest of us? What did we do exactly that deserves an entire day of attention?
We didn't die. We continued to breath. We aged.
Aging is the absolute easiest thing in this world to do. It's easier than breathing. You have to work a little to breath, your body has to function somewhat properly to continue breathing. If you stop breathing, you die. But even when you die, the human body nevertheless continues aging.
The hair grows, the nails grow and so-on. Even death can't stop us from aging.
Essentially, birthdays are a celebrating a person's simple existence.
And unlike most everyone else on this earth, I'm just not that egotistical.
When I accomplish something, you can buy me a drink, but for now, simple immergence from my mother's womb is not enough to warrant calling in sick from work. Immergence from a womb is quite common. Many people have immerged from various wombs. Some of my best friends have immerged from wombs and some of my best friends are morons.
And unlike most everyone else on this earth, I'm just not that egotistical.
When I accomplish something, you can buy me a drink, but for now, simple immergence from my mother's womb is not enough to warrant calling in sick from work. Immergence from a womb is quite common. Many people have immerged from various wombs. Some of my best friends have immerged from wombs and some of my best friends are morons.
In my mid-twenties, I haven't yet made the impact on this world that I hope to one day make and I certainly didn't make any important impact at the age of seven.
My parents suggested I have a party, which is natural. I will suggest the same thing to my seven-year-old, I'm sure.*** And for all I know at the time, I wanted one. But by the time my friends arrived, I realized how uncomfortable I was with being the center of attention.
Even as a wee-guy, I didn't understand why Womb Immergence Completion (W.I.C.) was grounds for buttloads of presents. It wasn't enough that I got to choose the party decorations (Ghostbusters) and got to go first at all the games, but if you came to celebrate me, you had to come with a gift in hand. As if the toy truck your mom bought me was a lovely virgin and I was the angry volcano.
But I wasn't an angry volcano and I felt bad that my friends had to bring sacrificial gifts to play limbo and pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey with me.
This is how I felt when the games started. Musical chairs to be exact. My mom ran the record player, my dad took the pictures and I took it upon myself to totally throw my own game of musical chairs. I was the tallest kid in my second grade class, I made running strides like a gazelle and had home court advantage for Godssake, there was no reason I should have been the first person out of musical chairs.
This is how I felt when the games started. Musical chairs to be exact. My mom ran the record player, my dad took the pictures and I took it upon myself to totally throw my own game of musical chairs. I was the tallest kid in my second grade class, I made running strides like a gazelle and had home court advantage for Godssake, there was no reason I should have been the first person out of musical chairs.
But there was Stevie.
Stevie was a disgrace.
Stevie was a disgrace.
Halfway through the first lap around the chairs, Stevie got the wheezes. He was done and I feared he was going to cry. So just as the record player stopped spinning, my deer-like gracefulness failed me completely and I found myself on the ground, waiting for Stevie to take my seat. He did; flabby knees (who has flab on their knees?) swinging above me, looking pleased as punch.
The very next round, Stevie ran the wrong way around the chairs and gave up before the music even ended.
I didn't feel much better when it came time for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. As the birthday boy, I was forced to go first. As a blindfold, we used a sunbleached, worn-out bandana that belonged to my mother. I could see through it and instead of saying so, I just pretended I couldn't and missed the stupid donkey poster by a solid five feet. **** No one else did though and my parents eventually figured out what was going on. It was never discussed with me, but I fear that my mother and father thought they had a seven-year-old idiot that wasn't smart enough to cheat.
I didn't feel much better when it came time for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. As the birthday boy, I was forced to go first. As a blindfold, we used a sunbleached, worn-out bandana that belonged to my mother. I could see through it and instead of saying so, I just pretended I couldn't and missed the stupid donkey poster by a solid five feet. **** No one else did though and my parents eventually figured out what was going on. It was never discussed with me, but I fear that my mother and father thought they had a seven-year-old idiot that wasn't smart enough to cheat.
And then came the time to open presents.
Is there anything worse for a kid that wants nothing less than to be the center of attention than opening everyone's presentsa in front of them? Seven-year-old boys all play with the same toys and there wasn't a kid in this world that didn't envy the toys that were given away at other people's birthday parties.
There was a fine line between being gracious for the gifts bestowed upon the angry volcano and waving the gifts in front of my friends' (and Stevie's) face.
I hated having to toe that line.
I hated having to celebrate that which I have no control over.
I hated and continue to hate putting myself at the center of attention.
I hated and continue to hate any function that summons Stevie to my house on a weekend.
And I hated celebrating anything that Stevie was just as talented as me at accomplishing.
And nothing that Stevie can do as well as everyone else should ever be celebrated.
Ever.
[This blog is dedicated to Stevie Grey, wherever he may be.]
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* So, by my calculations, means (and I want you to double-check my math) Stuart should have 11 chins by now. Which is such a horrible image that I almost ceased writing this blog in order to Google Stuart's name in hopes of finding a current picture of him to check if this calculation came true.
** On second thought, that's not true. Members of the opposite gender were never invited to birthday parties until junior high or high school.
Or if you were me, girls weren't invited until your twenty-third birthday and didn't actually accept the invitation until your twenty-fifth.
*** For what it's worth, this was the last birthday party I had for fourteen years. I had a sixth birthday, a seventh and a surprise party thrown in my honor for turning twenty-one. And although it was a lovely sentiment, I rebelled from my 21st birthday by not having a single beer and making everyone go out to see 'Shrek'.
**** In hindsight, I suppose I could have insisted that my mom just use a less threadbare handkerchief, but I was barely seven-years-old; there was only so far as my cleverness was going to take me.
And nothing that Stevie can do as well as everyone else should ever be celebrated.
Ever.
[This blog is dedicated to Stevie Grey, wherever he may be.]
======================
* So, by my calculations, means (and I want you to double-check my math) Stuart should have 11 chins by now. Which is such a horrible image that I almost ceased writing this blog in order to Google Stuart's name in hopes of finding a current picture of him to check if this calculation came true.
** On second thought, that's not true. Members of the opposite gender were never invited to birthday parties until junior high or high school.
Or if you were me, girls weren't invited until your twenty-third birthday and didn't actually accept the invitation until your twenty-fifth.
*** For what it's worth, this was the last birthday party I had for fourteen years. I had a sixth birthday, a seventh and a surprise party thrown in my honor for turning twenty-one. And although it was a lovely sentiment, I rebelled from my 21st birthday by not having a single beer and making everyone go out to see 'Shrek'.
**** In hindsight, I suppose I could have insisted that my mom just use a less threadbare handkerchief, but I was barely seven-years-old; there was only so far as my cleverness was going to take me.
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