Mike Maddock The last significant birthday party I had was 15 years ago. It was on a Tuesday night my junior year in college, and it had something to do with becoming the legal age to do something. Come to think about that party, I don’t really remember much of it, but I do know I didn’t make it to many classes the next day.

Since that time, birthdays have become increasingly less significant. My next big party may be when I reach social security age, but at this rate I’ll probably have to find something to celebrate other than that.

My wife and my mom seem more than content just to have reached another birthday. They don’t need fanfare or even presents. They’re just happy in the notion that God has granted them another year on this planet. Well, I say a big “Phooey!” to that. If I’m going to age and get everything that goes along with it like ear hair, constant back pain, and a complete disdain for loud music, then I want some acknowledgement!

The other day I discovered I’d reached yet another milestone in this grand aging process just in time for my 36th birthday. I am now officially hairless below the sock line. It’s all gone! Now I’ll be one of those guys on the beach with white, bald ankles. It’s only a matter of time before I have to break out the black socks and sandals.

Birthdays should never be insignificant. When I was a kid, I can remember skating under a mirror ball while the DJ screamed happy birthday over the P.A. system, sinking a hole–in–one at the Putt–Putt course in front of all my friends, and running like mad in an icing induced high through the McDonald’s playground.

Well I don’t need to “shoot the duck” to some disco music and a cheesy DJ or spin wildly with my thirty–something peers on a “Grimace” merry–go–round, but I could use a little attention. I don’t want to be serenaded by a less than enthusiastic wait–staff at TGIF’s, but I am glad to accept presents. Cash is nice.

My family and I just celebrated my youngest daughter’s sixth birthday party at our house. It was quite an affair. She and several other enthusiastic kindergarteners got to bob for apples, go on a ghost hunt, bust a piñata, gorge themselves on cake, and jump until their little legs could not move in one of those gigantic, blow–up bouncy houses. I had to fight every ounce of my being not to join in the fun.

I don’t think it would have gone over too well with the parents if a man with hairless ankles destroyed the piñata, ate most of the Tinkerbell cake, stole the presents, and flattened several kids in the bouncy house. So I just watched and took pictures so my daughter would have memories of the days when her birthday parties consisted of a little more than a pat on the back and a couple of aspirin.

I wish I could just be happy to have another year like my wife and mom, but I’m not that good a person. I need something other than fuzzy ear lobes and shiny ankles to get through this life.