Happy Birthdays

On Birthdays

My wife is fourteen months older than I am. Apparently this has not been a serious impediment to our relationship: we have been married since 1978. This is notable only because in two days she will turn 50. The poor girl has been depressed since the day she turned 49. So depressed, in fact, that I have been forced to abandon my favorite decennial ritual (okay, my only decennial ritual): every ten years I harass her mercilessly from the day of her birthday (September 10^th) until the day of mine (November 4^th). It started when Sharon turned thirty and I had eight full weeks during which I remained 28. I told everyone I knew that she was in her thirties and I was in my mid-twenties. It was great fun (for me.)

The joke was even funnier (for me) when she turned forty and I told everyone that I was in my mid-thirties. However, this year I think I will cut off the humor. Or else she will cut it off (for me.)

Last July, my wife celebrated my birthday early by taking me to Cash Creek, a huge Indian casino in a tiny town about 100 years east of San Francisco. She planned the trip with a friend whose husband Derrick was born on November 6^th - two days after I was. Why celebrate in July? Joan Rivers and Don Rickles were appearing and the girls were worried that if they waited until November, Rickles might croak.

I am the wrong person to bring to a casino. I do not drink, I do not gamble, and I do not smoke. I also have no tolerance for sallow-cheeked dull-eyed gamblers who wander about casinos with pathetic cups of coins clutched between their grimy hands. The losers have beaten-puppy faces, and the winners obsessively stalk their next slot machine or black jack table with an insane “Bambi Returns” look in their eyes (“Bambi! Stop! You’re safe! Why are you running back into the forest fire?” “I just want to see if I can get out alive again.”)

My wife loves the slots but I don’t get it. She says, “It’s okay as long as I get away without losing too much.” I say, “Would you jog through Central Park at midnight to see if you can get away without giving too much money to the muggers? Isn’t that the same thing? You win by not getting beaten up too badly?”

Anyway, I gritted my teeth, promised myself to not be too judgmental (fat chance!) and drove to Cash Creek. Joan Rivers was brilliant, but judging by his performance Rickles apparently croaked several years ago. After the show the four of us went to the coffee shop and struck up a conversation with the couple at the next table. They were twins of our friends: a Jewish woman from New York married to a black guy from Chicago. What were the chances? Within thirty seconds we were talking comfortably.

Reuben was a large man, still trim and muscular, with a shaved head and a goatee. Interesting. I said, “Reuben, how do you like your hairdo? It looks like a lot of work.” He said it was easy; he just had more territory to shave. I said, “I’ve always thought that a shaved head is a great look, but only on tall, slender, black athletes. You know, NBA stars. You guys can carry it off. We can’t.”

Reuben looked at me and smiled slightly, a tolerant father gazing fondly at his dimwitted son. He said that he never thought about it that way. He said that he didn’t have much hair left, that what little hair he still had was a sad looking gray, and that it had become scraggly and unmanageable. It didn’t look good no matter how he styled it; it just looked tired. He said he had shaved it off to solve the problem and he liked his new look a lot, but so far no one had mistaken him for Michael Jordon. Apparently Reuben and Derrick weren’t the only men at the table with something in common.

Two nights later I shaved my head and started a goatee. It’s been eight weeks now and I like my new look a lot, but so far no one has mistaken me for Michael Jordon.

Have a happy birthday, whenever yours comes.