Birthdays

When I was 24, with my life ahead of me, but somehow feeling that my life was leading nowhere, I spent my birthday cooking pancakes and noodles. Feeling morose, and in what I call my Murakami mood. I was jobless, penniless, staying at my parents’ home, barely leaving my room but to get food. My birthday present to myself was a Burger Machine burger, which I got at around 3AM on the morning of my birthday.

My parents asked me if I was feeling alright. I think by that point they knew I was a birthday person. I like celebrating myself on birthdays. I like greetings. But somehow, at 24, I was just morose.

When I was 13, still in grade school with a slight hint of autonomy, I got my parents to give me a few scraps of money to treat my friends. I always wanted to treat people to a meal on my birthday, and somehow my mother was able to scrape together a few pesos to get me to do it. It was in Greenwich, we bought a pizza package, and I had my friends with me. I can’t remember some of their names, or some of their faces now, but I remember being satisfied.

When I was 36, I was already at Uber—coincidentally cruising along Sydney harbour for our 10 year anniversary. It was my third month living in this new country, I was around a lot of acquaintances, on a ship in the middle of the sea. We dock and I finally come home—to my wife surprising me with a cake and birthday balloons. We were three months since I’d uprooted everything and moved to a new country. Six months since we’d gotten married. Five years since we met. I loved her more that night than any other night before, but also love her more now than I did then.

When I was around 10, a Catholic boy in a Catholic school, wearing a white shirt daily in the morning, but returning home with the same shirt, now caked in mud and dirt, I remember getting greeted in the parking lot. Someone approached me to greet me a happy birthday, and gave me a water gun for my birthday. I did not know who, I did not know why, but I received that water gun and stored it. It stuck out to me since then - someone I barely knew, cared enough to give me something of value. I lost the gun pretty much instantly, but I still have the memory.

When I was 29, I felt that I was at the height of my life. I was in law school, running a Product Management conference, and working as a product manager. My then-team threw a surprise party for me, complete with balloons, cakes, and signs. It was a fun day, but that team slowly disintegrated. In a few months, relationships within that team turned for the worse, and slowly but surely, one by one, they left.

When I was 9, I remember my mother asking me if it’s ok for us not to eat anymore at Caesar’s Pizza. I didn’t understand then, but I realized growing up that we really didn’t have the money to afford to splurge on a pizza. I was a reckless kid who was selfish and insisted I should eat. My mother just sat in the chair happily watching me go through the food. It was a difficult time then, I would realize eventually. But at that moment, I was happy.

I am 39 now. And today, I’m in one of my Murakami moods. More pondering, than morose. More contemplative than banal. One of my favorite books I read whenever these days happen is, surprise, a Murakami book called “Birthday Stories”. And part of my yearly ritual is to look back on the days that passed. Ironically, this isn’t the first time I did this write-up. I know I have tried and done this several times in the past, probably more than a few times, remembering my birthdays and the attributed memories for each.

But at 39, the day feels different. For one, I now have a child. And I’ve set my birthday just to spend with my Elyse. While there is still the selfish part that wants to celebrate myself (I was contemplating buying an iPhone earlier this morning), these days, I feel much more content. Sure, there are more birthdays to come, and more challenges to go through. But the reality is that I am content. There’s no more angst of youth or drive of poverty. For a Murakami book, I would be in the end—I feel like I’m there (or in case South of the Border, West of the Sun, the start).

Age brings some amount of peace. So does love, stability, so does small successes and achievements. I look back today appreciative of my journey, long as it may have been - from where I started, to where I am now. Grateful, satisfied, but still hungry for what’s next.

I have a firmer grasp of what my birthday would be when I’m 40, and a little bit more certainty of even 45, or 50. While it does feel like it is a closing of a book, I look back and reminisce just how I got here, and all the memories that made all 39 years of me.