Running through The Six in a towel - You'll have to speak up

Last Friday, I was walking in the subterranean tunnel system beneath the belly of Toronto’s financial district (known to the local mole people as the PATH) to obtain my overpriced lunchbox of spiralized zucchini, massaged kale, garlic-free basil pesto and added tempeh for the extra douchebag touch, on one of my last tender young days of being a gentle 28. [Complete sidebar: Microsoft Word knows the word douchebag but does not accept the word spiralized – I salute you, Bill]

I am not a very good PATH mole, my career didn’t grow up with the wont of vitamin D supplementation, and only being at the office one day a week these days doesn’t help. I really only know how to get from my desk to my massaged kale (only through massage was it elevated to a superfood from buffet garnish) back to my desk again.

In spite of seemingly never going outside and walking bowlegged as a result of rickets, the PATH is full of bright young things with pressed suits, brightly coloured socks, and even brighter shined shoes with that glint of arrogance that only youth and not graduating in a financial crisis can give you.

Procured lunchbox in hand, I turn on my heel and begin the perilous walk dodging these shiny moles as they meander towards their chosen grazing holes. And I think to myself: “these guys do absolutely nothing for me.” Eureka! This is it! That is the exact moment that I realize – I’m grown.

Mind you, I didn’t jump out of the bath a la Archimedes, but if I have to explain how I arrive at all the titles of my blog posts, I’ll realize how unfunny I’ve been the entire time. If you’ve been a part of this blog for the past 6.5 years, you may notice some recurring themes: one being a penchant for men in suits. Perhaps it is the full immersion into mole culture which has given me immunity. I had to be around it completely to be repulsed by it. Kind of like how working at Wendy’s in high school taught me humility and killed any desire to ever eat there.

Turning 29 means I am now immune to seemingly confident men in their protective designer suit amour deflecting sincerity with perceived charm and oozing self-importance. Kind of like how when I turned 19 I learned to vaccinate myself against guitar playing pseudo-sensitive types. I am sure that at 30 I will have the same feeling I had at 20 when I congratulate myself on – once again – escaping teenage pregnancy.

Never mind that my life partner wears a suit almost daily and also plays the guitar, nah, we can wrap this adult thing up – I got this.  

Truth be told, 29 came in as kind of a whisper, much less of a bang – even if it’s supposed to be the birthday I celebrate for a few decades to come. People say I really have to celebrate 30 next year, but really what is another journey around the sun? And what exactly is the purpose of celebrating survival?

It’s obvious I had nothing to do with my birth. I was just going with the flow, minding my own business, until I emerged into the world on March 13, 1987. And thankfully through scientific progress of sanitation, vaccinations and other modern medicines I stay alive a lot longer than previous generations. If you think about it, survival isn’t that grounded in my personal success or abilities at all.  

I grew up in the self-esteem generation, though when I look up the term the last time it was used was about 2013 so I’m even behind on the hip terms to explain the narcissist predilection of my generation. Growing up you were taught you were special and everyone gets a participation award, and not to mention, body image issues.

My preference is celebrating actual achievements. For example, I dragged my boyfriend to my MBA graduation (he opted to skip his) and made him sit through a long and drawn out ceremony on his birthday just to see me walk across a stage and shake a man’s hand. Because I spent 60,000 quid on that walk so I am damn well going to do it. It’s great that he also cares little for pomp and circumstance for middling achievements. He’s French, after all.

Barring any actual achievements, because hey – life is hard, I believe in celebrating the everyday. At least that’s what I tell the people at the liquor store who ask me if I’m celebrating when I buy champagne on a Tuesday. People see birthdays a socially acceptable time to reach out to someone you’ve lost touch with; I don’t see why you can’t do that anytime. We are so affronted by people reconnecting with us, it’s a shame.

In short, I am over my birthday. Sure, there are milestones in life, but there’s so much more to life than putting pressure on one arbitrary day versus another. By extension, this is how I feel about St. Patrick’s Day, bachelorette parties, New Year’s Eve and other “obligatory” high pressure celebration days. Celebrate, all day, every day because you want to and focus on building a life worth toasting.

[Author’s Note: The Six (The 6) is what cool people call Toronto. I’m trying to be cool. Is it working?]