Feathered caps and birthday wishes

When I was younger, I remember lying in bed the night before my birthday, tossing and turning unable to fall asleep. The anticipation of presents, cake and the subsequent party kept me up for hours, too excited to do anything but lie on my back and stare up at the plastic luminescent constellations on the ceiling. I watched the minutes tick away on my digital alarm clock and it seemed like the morning would never come.

We turned my back porch into a tree house for a Robin Hood-themed party. My mother made small hats with a feather in them and gave them to all my friends. Mine, of course, had the longest feather. My dad made a life-sized version of Robin and we played pin the arrow on his bow. We ate strawberry shortcake that my mother baked, late at night in the dark of the kitchen.

It was a blast.

I had a party at Fort Delaware the next year. Everyone dressed up as either a pioneer or an Indian, and I remember charging up the embankment toward the fort, believing for a moment that I was transported back in time. Everything used to be possible on my birthday.

“What are you doing for your birthday?” my mother asked me a few days ago.

“Working,” I told her, then added, “unfortunately.”

“That’s what happens when you get older. You work on your birthday,” she said.

“Yup,” I said.

The night before, I stayed up late prepping for a music video shoot. I fell asleep quickly. I woke up groggily at 6:00 a.m., the car I would take already waiting for me downstairs, honking insistently. As I slumped into the backseat and headed to a studio in midtown, my birthday hardly crossed my mind.

On our lunch break, the producers brought out cupcakes with candles in them. The crew sang “Happy Birthday” and everyone shook my hand. Then, we went back to work.

That night, I had dinner with my girlfriend, Lauren, at a restaurant near my house. I was exhausted. Over dinner, we talked of growing older.

“Twenty-three sounds so old,” I told her.

“Kind of, not really,” she said, and smiled.

My phone rang constantly. Old friends called to send me birthday wishes. It was nice. Many of them I’m stilling playing phone tag with; recent NYU graduates are busy.

There was no excitement, no anticipation the night before. I unwrapped one present, blew out some candles and deposited my birthday money. That night I lay in bed looking up at my cracked, water-stained ceiling and evaluated my life.

I thought of my last birthday, what I was doing, how much I had learned since, and how much I would learn by the next one.

I thought about success, and how long it would take before I was happy with what I was doing. My birthday is becoming my watermark, a distinct marker. A ticking clock of regrets, experiences, hopes and dreams.

Interesting, how one’s perspective on birthdays changes as you grow older, I thought. I understand a bit better how birthdays can start to depress someone, and why people start lying about their ages.

Still, it’s nice to be growing and gaining new perspectives, and nice to have phone calls from family and friends. My Robin Hood hat hangs alone, the large feather protruding from a box full of Ninja Turtles and Legos. A distant memory of an excellent party.