In the spirit of Andy Rooney, I’ve got to complain: Large annual birthday celebrations for humans over the age of 21 are fucking ridiculous. Having a “birthday weekend” — or god forbid a “birthday week” — with multiple events takes the narcissism to a whole new level.
If I were king, anyone over age 21 would be permitted: a small dinner or happy hour with a handful of friends. The end, full stop. Maybe some Rock Band at home, though I’m no fan of Rock Band parties either. You could throw a larger bash on milestone birthdays, no more than once every 10 years.
I finally removed my birthday information from Facebook because the endless stream of insincere birthday wishes just got me depressed. This is not to say I fear growing older — on the contrary I’m actually pretty excited about it. But I think this neverending string of celebrations for not dying during another 365-day period is a bit grandiose.
It could also be because I’m just really, really bad at remembering my friends’ birthdays.
UPDATE: J. tells me that Patton Oswalt has a funny bit on this.