The Birth That Counts

How do you prefer your birthday?

With a crowd all aloud?
With your crew downing brew?
With a few playing Clue?
With your mate tempting fate?
Sub-radar, “‘Tis news afar”?
(In a box with a fox?)

As I get deeper into my early 30′s, my preference has been the latter (no, not in a house with a mouse). Sure, I’m glad I was born, but if I’m not up for celebrating an event around a central character that is me, beyond celebrating for celebration’s sake, then I personally don’t see why I’d want others to go out of their way. If you want to, though, I won’t stop you.

Congratulating me on my birth? Call my Mom – she did the work. Call my Dad – he had a seminal part in the matter.

Congratulating me on making it this far in life without succumbing to disease or harm? I’ve made it this far, thanks, though I’m sure there are higher bars of achievement beyond survival now that the average lifespan is over 30.

Calling to say hi? That’s cool. Let’s grab a cappuccino.

I feel like I’ve turned into a curmudgeon in this regard. The thing is, the most useful part of a birthday, for me, is the opportunity to reflect…

The earth has circled the sun in about 525600 minutes. So while Earth has made its journey, how has mine been?

Reflection and other methods of observing ego are important, which is why I’d prefer to enjoy its benefits more often than once a year, say, once a week at my Sprint Retrospective. This means I have a birthday every week. Try it :) .

Happy Birthday to you, too.