The Sole Societal Imperative

I’m 44 today, which means I’m optimistically a little more than half dead.

My staff here will be surprised to read this. I’ve never disclosed my birthday to anyone and have asked every operations manager not to staff-wide email well wishes when Feb. 4 rolls around on the calendar.

We all have our little peccadilloes, and for me, the ritual seems so arbitrary. Fielding all the attention is a distraction, frankly. When people would ask me directly, I’d usually just say my birthday was in 1982 and leave it at that.

If it weren’t for the women in my life, I’d likely breeze right by it. I once spent an entire year thinking I was 37 until one day my wife was telling people I had just turned 37. Apparently news to me.

Yes, I’ve been somewhat of a birthday grinch. As far as I’m concerned, after the discovery of antibiotics and the advancement of modern dentistry, birthdays are basically meaningless outside of Sub-Saharan Africa.

Perhaps if I were a fisherman off the coast of Alaska, I’d take a beat when the anniversary comes. But I have a laptop job in Northern Virginia in 2026 America. Should anyone be surprised I survived yet another year? Shocker!

This morning, as I was in a daycare classroom saying goodbye to my daughter, who is about to turn four this upcoming March, she ran up to a complete stranger who was also dropping off her kid.

“My daddy’s birthday is today and we’re going to the bakery!”