I had the nerdiest 21st birthday party in the history of partying, and there was even alcohol involved. My dad and I went to a bar the evening before I actually turned 21, just so they would have to wash off the giant “NO” stamp on my hand at midnight. It’s not a birthday party without party games, so we played, “Shit You Still Can’t Do Even Though You Just Turned 21.” He came up with, “You can’t rent a car until you’re 25,” and I fired back with, “I can’t be President for fourteen more years.”
At midnight, I ordered my own drink for the first time. I had a bucket of strawberry daiquiri with a straw and we ate at Taco Bell the next day. I was livin’ the dream.
But now that I’m waaaaay older than 21 and I can both rent a car AND be President (even though I still can’t join AARP or receive Medicare), I’m kind of stuck in middle-aged limbo. I’m old enough to know better than to do something but not so old that I a) don’t go ahead and do it anyway without thinking it through or b) really not care if you find out I did it. It sucks here in the middle.
On a lighter note, I learned yesterday about a concept known as Donating Your Birthday. On the surface, it does sound a lot like agreeing to die. I was a little alarmed when I got the message asking me to do this, so my first thought was, “What the fuck, dude? What did I ever do to you?” Luckily, I finished reading the whole thing this time.
No, you pledge to donate your birthday (I promise they don’t come kill you, I even double checked the Terms & Agreements) so whenever your birthday rolls around, instead of gifts or spending money by going out drinking or buying yourself that chain saw you’ve always wanted but really don’t need, you give the money from your I-need-a-chainsaw fund to charity. I pledged my birthday to charity:water (I don’t know why it’s lower case, either, but they make drinking water happens in places where there isn’t any).
My next step is going to be to donate all my Dinnertimes to charity but I haven’t picked the lucky winner-charity yet. In this version, instead of cooking dinner, we eat Saltines with peanut butter out of the jar and I give the money I was going to spend on making Beef Wellington to someone deserving. Everyone wins!
7 thoughts on “I’m 266 Years Old in Dog Years”
Cool! where can I donate my dinner money? My family can eat saltines. If I tell them some starving African kid is going to get Beef Wellington, they might even enjoy them. Lorce, you rock!
Wait, do I have to MAIL the Beef Wellington to Africa? Because I don’t get by the post office very often and it sounds like a lot of work.
Another great post. I love your blog – it always lifts my mood.
I heard this interesting ‘factoid’ on the radio yesterday: Robert Louis Stevenson, the Scottish author (Treasure Island, etc.) left his birthday to a friend in his will. His friend was born on Christmas Day and so never had a proper birthday with presents etc. RLS’s birthday was November 13.
THAT is the height of cool! My daughter’s is late November, so even hers is clouded by Christmas trees. Of course, some years it actually falls ON Thanksgiving, so there’s turkey at her party. We celebrate her half birthday in May!
Oh man. I had no idea that I am less than 6 weeks away from turning 413 in dog years, until I read this blog and did the math..
NO! Don’t EVER do the math! The math is evil and must be destroyed!
You’re right. And the good news is that I don’t look a day over 200.