It’s the eve of my best friend’s 50th birthday party and I was trying to recap her 40th and 30th for Mr Z, who didn’t know me back then and was just Mr Himself. For her 30th, her boyfriend did a “J gallery” across every wall – a pictorial chronology with salty captions about why her camera face is a look of unending dread. For her 40th, he did a Museum of J, with incredible glass cabinets that he built himself, full of school reports and Walkmans and whatnot. I wondered aloud what he could possibly do for her 50th that would match all that – maybe borrow a rib from each of their daughters and get it turned into a diamond? I thought I saw a shadow cross Mr Z’s face, that unmistakable look of: “Mr J consistently tries too hard, which is making the rest of us look bad.”
You can take a landmark birthday seriously or you can call it “just a number” while underneath taking it seriously, or you can genuinely believe that it’s just a number and the real crises of purpose and mortality occur at weird times, like 37 and a half. But you cannot deny that each landmark birthday party has its own special flavour.
