An Ode to the Milestone Birthday
By: Scott Boice
Tags: Birthday, Humor, Boomers, Milestones, Family

Oh the Humanity!

As a psychotherapist for more than 20 years I’ve always tried to live life in the moment, you know, mindfulness and all that good stuff. For the most part it’s worked. Overall, my six decades have been pretty sweet. Kids are grown and doing well. Thirty six years of marriage to a girl I adore. More than a couple professional and academic achievements.

However, I have always been (and continue to be) seduced by the allure of the milestone birthday. The anticipation of celebrating the achievements of another decade with some dramatic “experience”; taking on the massive waves at Pipeline, tagging the summit of K2, running with the bulls in Pamplona, fighting off Jennifer Anniston (Jennifer give it up, I’m married!). The possibilities are as big as your imagination.

Over the last 50 years I’ve had some huge milestone birthday dreams. However, reality, that cruel mistress, has consistently grabbed the nearest flamethrower and incinerated my dreams beyond recognition. Dental records won’t even help. Let me share some of the highlights. Be forewarned, it’s a rough ride.

Age 10. Not sure if this one really counts, but at least for me it is memorable in a way that remains deeply painful. Marks the end of a decade of championship level bedwetting, sprinkled with more than occasional neighborhood fire setting (Hey Mom, there’s a fireman at the door!), narrowly escaping the triple crown of sociopathology (I was not cruel to animals, just tough on mattresses).

Age 20. I celebrate in a dank basement apartment in Port Alberni, British Columbia. The only place in BC that nobody wants to visit. My Big Sister has just died after a horrific knock down drag out with cancer. I’m 4000 miles from home. Grinding out a two year mission for my church. I spend the big day in the company of a Utah boy who constantly regales me with stories about muddin’, poppin’ bucks, and skinnin’ anything that has fur. (He also never pronounces or even acknowledges the letter G)

Age 30. Hooray! Just graduated from college (late bloomer). Unemployed. Celebrate by living in a trailer in front of my mother in laws house (she celebrates with black candles, stick pins, and a doll with a mullet. Ouch.) It will not be my last milestone birthday living in a house on wheels.

Which brings me to the Big 40. After almost a decade as an award winning TV sports journalist (oxymoron) and finishing grad school I find myself unemployed. Again. And yes, living in an RV in my parents driveway with my wife and 3 kids. They think we’re on vacation. Which is true. A seemingly endless holiday from income, success, hope, a future…

The Bigger 50. Spend the day celebrating the financial ruin of America. My long suffering birthday party planning wife invites some of my old high school buddies over where we have a nice breakfast and discuss group suicide. Kool Aide is served as we toast our shredded 401ks and evaporating home equity. It goes down smooth.

Age 60. The Apocalypse. Three days before my birthday my Mom dies. I turn 60 dressed in black. Then my company gets sold. I lose my dream job. My Dad dies. I get fat. Darkness. At least I’m living in a wheelless house.

Age 70. Just speculating here. What I’m planning. Hiking the Camino de Santiago in Spain with my girl. What I’m expecting. My best guess is that Elon Musk’s first flying car crashes into our trailer (I hope it’s at least an Airstream).

Despite the disappointment of my decade disasters, the in between years have been pretty dang good; filled with family, fun, success, travel, all kinds of nice stuff. A wise (old) person said “ It’ll all work out in the end, if it hasn’t worked out, it isn’t the end”.

Even with that in mind, when it’s time for a milestone birthday, I buckle up. I know somehow, some way, I’m going to end up on wheels.