I did it. For the 29th year in a row, I managed not to die. A new record! (For me.)

In truth, it wasn’t as maudlin as all that, but those who know me know of my abhorrence for events. My growing older is not something to be celebrated so much as noted. Still, for all my cynicism, this weekend was memorable and carefree. I was made to feel that even if my birthday matters not a whit to me, it matters to those close to me, and that is perhaps the point.

Now, don’t think I’ve gone soft. I still wish they’d knock that crap off; I’m horrible about the reciprocation and that makes me feel guilty. So, even without my bitter Ayn Rand rationalization of these things, I have that selfish reason to fall back on. But, I can not fault my friends; they reminded me this weekend how life should be lived.

After all my protestations, my birthday was made to stretch over nearly a week. It began on my actual birthday: last Thursday, the 16th. My employer is still enough in touch with their roots as to allow everyone a free paid day on their birthday, so I took the day to visit my grandmother in Ilinois, who coincidentally has the same birthday as I do and has for years. It was hers first, so I didn’t make her drive up to visit me.

My youngest aunt and her family were also there, as well as Cookie Aunt (a favorite everywhere) and one of my twin uncles. My uncle and grandfather were kind enough to flatten us in Pinochle a few times as MHG and I struggled to grasp the strategy. While my uncle was rather more competitive than necessary, he was trying to be helpful, and my grandfather was uncharacteristically sweet as he guided us through our hands.

Since I had plans for dinner in Kenosha County with my mentor, I had to dismiss myself just after dessert. For whatever reasons, I always feel like we’re ditching on my family when we leave, even if we stay right until the moment they’re going to sleep. On the car ride to Kenosha, MHG mentioned that it’s probably because the rest of the family is usually staying the night, but I think there may be something deeper to it.

My mother often wanted to leave family functions early due to her discomfort, so it’s probably just my desire to be dissociated from that behavior. I still show up late to almost every family function, though I would consider that circumstantial. On this particular occasion, I arrived almost two hours late, and then inadvertently had them rush dinner along so that I could eat before I had to leave. More on my twisted psyche as time permits. For now, let that be lesson one of “How to Feel a Right Bastard.”

Dinner with my mentor circled around the fencing program we together had nursed back to health, then eventually landed on a recap of my ten-year high school reunion, where I had spoken with her son for the first time in several years. K. had been my best friend for a long time, and then as circumstance would have it, we both did young and foolish man things and … well, we broke up I guess.

Throughout the conversation, I realized lesson two. He and his family rarely see eye to eye as it is, so my being so close to them is likely hindering, particularly if they praise me in his presence. They would do that to remind him of my good points in an effort to rekindle our friendship, but it likely would have the opposite effect: I look like I’m trying to get to him through his family. At the reunion, I related to my friend, M. — who had been a sort of sore spot between K. and me — further giving the impression that I had chosen M. over K. And because I’m frustrated by the whole situation and have hold of some sympathetic ears at my mentor’s house, I said things about him that are not entirely flattering. Feeling like a right bastard is coming along swimmingly.

Thursday felt great as a social experience, brimming with laughter and nostalgia and genuine love. But the drive home gave me time to reflect, even as I chatted with MHG, and I began to understand how the years have affected me. I have become bitter, hardened, unsympathetic and … selfish. In my attempts to peel my doormat self off the floor, I have become that spiky plastic mat that is supposed to clean shoes, but its more likely just to stab the unwary feet of house guests.

Another way I’ve aged: my metaphors are stretched paper-thin.

Friday night, after I had “worked” through a day of birthday greetings and jittery anticipation of a weekend filled with friends, M. and J. hosted several of us for corned beef, cabbage and games. The night rolled on and on, with absolutely no hard feelings and only a few birthday niceties. The night was ours and not mine, and I gleefully raised some pints with close friends.

Then, with little warning, out came the gifts. A master’s plastron/ vest and a stage/ practice rapier with a buttoned epee blade. I had made quite a stink on my blog about how I felt my friends would celebrate with me anything that I myself found unimportant but seemed (or would seem) unsupportive of my pursuits toward becoming a stunt performer. The card was funny, but also a bit of a jab back in my direction. To paraphrase “You’re talented, witty, charming… and still willing to hang out with people like us.”

Perhaps they overcompensated a bit, but their support was touching nonetheless. And while my nature begrudges the timing of it being a birthday present, their message was clear, and I will take it to heart. My friends deserve more credit than what I give them in my rantings allow them. They care, even if they don’t quite understand. My grade for lesson 3: A+.

Saturday was a viewing of The Big Lebowski at our place, followed by bowling and a floundering food search on the East side of Milwaukee. People came in and out of the party, as their schedules permitted. Many people were new to one another, and my own awkwardness in the situation led to me pushing people into conversations, particularly Bandmate Bjorn and Bassplayer Brian.

I jokingly said, “You guys both just got new effects devices, therefore should have a lot in common. Now talk and become fast friends.” But my commentary, instead of being funny and ice-breaking, instead became the thing it was mocking and forced two congenial people who might have slid into conversation more naturally into an uncomfortable situation. Luckily, they both took it in stride.

Later, as the after-party of worm warfare subsided, I again forced them together as Bjorn was headed toward Brian’s destination and was kind enough to give him a lift. That is, after I had promised Brian a ride, then become lazy at three in the morning and implied that Bjorn should do it instead. Lesson 4 complete.

All in all, I’ve come to the conclusion that while I have good reason for disliking get-togethers that become events, part of my mistrust of them stems from how poorly I tend to treat people in the course of them. That said, I hope that as good a time was had by all, as I myself had. And I hope that you, my friends who read this, will forgive my somewhat boorish behavior and allow me to make it up to you, and soon.