Hugo Schwyzer

Today, newly forty-one, I’m not nearly as reflective as I was a year ago. Forty is a milestone, and for me, ’twas a happy one to reach. Forty-one has less epic resonance, though I do note that today marks the 20th anniversary of my first legal drinking experience. And soon I will mark the tenth anniversary since my last drink.

I’m thinking this morning not about my age, but about past birthdays. Here are a few that stick in my mind:

1970 (age 3); The first birthday I remember, and one of my very first memories. I attended the “Humpty-Dumpty Nursery School” in Santa Barbara, and I had a very fine cake.

1975 (age 8): My birthday fell on a weekend, and my mother arranged a party on Carmel River State Beach. The theme was “pirates”, and we barbecued hot dogs and flew a pirate flag. We had invited most of my class, but only a small handful of boys came. It was momentarily disappointing, but as I recall, one of those who did come was Brett, perhaps the most popular boy in school. He had never paid me much attention before, but he spent a few hours with me that afternoon, playing in the sand. I was very happy.

1980 (age 13): Mom gave me Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits and the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack on cassette. Those two recordings would be my constant companions in high school.

1985 (age 18): The first birthday where I had a “real” girlfriend in my life. A few weeks shy of high school graduation, my high school sweetheart bought me a gorgeous cable-knit sweater (which I wore for years) and took me out to one of those ghastly-yet-wonderful places where one could rent the use of a private hot tub by the hour.

1987 (age 20): Freshly out of the hospital after my first nervous breakdown, my birthday coincided with graduation weekend at Cal. Many of my older friends were “walking” that day, so the whole atmosphere was celebratory. I was on this strange medication that left me very prone to tears, and so the bittersweetness of watching my companions graduate, combined with the very recent scare I had had which had left me doubtful I would see 20, left me crying (not unhappily) most of the day.

1992 (age 25): My first marriage was falling apart, I was desperately depressed, hopelessly in love with someone who wasn’t my wife. Easily the worst birthday of my life: I kept thinking to myself “I”m half-way to thirty, and I’m so scared that the way I feel now is the way I will always feel: trapped, sad, exhausted.” Glory be, that fear did not come true.

1998 (age 31): I was dating the young woman who turned out to be the last student I would ever date. I was falling in love with her at exactly the same moment that I was falling off the pedestal upon which she had initially placed me. We ate candy most of the day, and she took me to see Warren Beatty’s sublime “Bulworth.” A strange and happy May 22, tinged with the disquieting sense (rightly, it turned out) that I was soon headed for a complete collapse.

2007 (age 40): Not one, but two surprise parties — both of which turned out to have been complete surprises, both thrown by my very clever and wonderful wife. Twice in the space of a week, she managed to walk me into a situation where I had no idea what awaited me: friends and family, loved ones all, showering me with affection. I’d never been successfully surprised before, not once — and my beloved pulled it off twice. The greatest gift of forty, however, was that I welcomed it with such enthusiasm. The dread I once felt about not having lived up to my potential was blessedly gone when this milestone arrived.

In my head this morning, I tried to catalog all the gifts I’ve received for my birthdays over the years. I remember stuffed animals and sweaters, cassette tapes and cash; I remember poetry and paintings and pairs of socks. Some gifts weren’t always legal or especially ethical, and some gifts can’t be mentioned, not even here after all this time. And some gifts were very small and very heart-felt, all the more memorable and moving as a consequence.

I’m teaching today on my forty-first birthday. A busy evening with my wife (and, naturally, the chinchillas) is planned. But whatever happens today, I’m keenly aware that my life is a gift. I did my damndest for many years to jeopardize my chances of living this long; my thoughts today are with those whom I loved who will never see their forty-first. There indeed, but for the grace of God (and private insurance, excellent therapy, and my own stubborn will) go I.

And though I don’t feel overwhelmed or exhausted by it, I’m also aware of something else this birthday: I’ve got a lot left to get done in this life. And a lot of it will happen on the road to 42.