Looks like my kids may be home from school Thursday and Friday, thanks to that hurricane headed our way.

It’s my birthday.  Again.   And now that I stand on the
cusp of 40, I think I’ve finally outlived the juvenile drama that goes
with birthdays–the buildup and hype, the anticipation, and the
inevitable post-birthday letdown with the return to normalcy. 

After all, most of the smaller things that I desire (music, 
books,  and the like) are well within my own reach, and those
things that aren’t impulse purchases that I find somewhat desirable are
just shinier, more expensive versions of the things I already
have.  Once I realize that, my desire for things rapidly turns to
indifference.

Sure, another guitar
is always nice.  But, as I tell my wife frequently as we stroll
through Ikea, “Where would we put it?”   (This generally
results in our escape from Ikea for under $200).

Maybe a newer, faster Mac G5 dual processor so I can videoconference
and render DVDs of my latest documentary epic at the same time. 
But where would I put it? Would that really make me happy?  (Well,
it would make Steve happy, probably)

Not any more happy than I am on average,
probably, based on what Jon Gertner reported in last Sunday’s NY Times
Magazine.  It seems that people just don’t get happier in the long
term from the acquisition of things, or the accumulation of more
money…they just get used to it.  (As the father of two boys
caught in the endless Nintendo upgrade loop, I could have saved Harvard
a lot of research investment on that point).

The Buddhists are right–things own you, especially Things on a macro
level, like houses, cars, and stock portfolios.  They require care
and feeding that distracts you from the rest of living.  And the
higher-end they are, the more care and feeding they require.

So, if you want to give me something for my birthday, give me an
extended deadline, or a day off in the park on my bike.  
Sure, maybe a new mountain bike might be nice (considering the terrain in the park) but my current ride
is more than most guys my age have indulged in.  Give me a
hand-drawn card, a Manhattan, a Che Guevara t-shirt from a Cuban thrift
store.  Give me a few minutes of intelligent conversation.

Save that other stuff for when I turn 40.  (Or, if you’re in a rush, for Christmas.)