Everyone gets a little more introspective around their birthday. For the past twenty or so years, I’ve funneled my birthday-related thoughts into a unique direction modeled after the president’s annual State of the Union Address.
Like the state of the union, my thoughts serve as an overview looking back on all that I’ve accomplished and setting strategic goals for the future.
It is entirely gratifying to put a spit-polish on my biggest accomplishments and failures. I especially enjoy finding a scapegoat for my failures, like those obstructionist stop lights that always make me late for work, or the crooked Google Maps app filling my phone with fake routes.
I also set goals for the future with a critical eye on infrastructure needs. Will this finally be the year I get my own portable air compressor, or will we continue to be dependent on foreign imports from Jenny’s friend’s husband?
We must never forget the tarp that was tattered and lost because of this spring’s yard cart deflate-gate scandal. Our allies were there for us this time, but we need to move towards compressed air self-reliance.
Should the snow blower’s wheels fail to gain traction, it could easily become a matter of domestic security.
While I stop short of mentally sitting dignitaries next to Jenny in the audience, I imagine who I’d invite to represent my interests. This year it would be Andy Rooney’s next of kin to celebrate the launch of Uncommon Discourse.
Next to them would be Kanye West for the remarkable ability to also think everything is about him. We’re kindred spirits that way.
I’m not exactly giving myself a pep talk with these addresses. It isn’t meant to be a life-defining moment that changes me at my core. It’s far more Tony the Tiger than Tony Robbins.
The idea is to appreciate the year behind me while preparing for the one ahead. It is a one-day connection of yester-Chris and future Chris within my reflective spectrum.
I do set goals, similar to when George W. Bush challenged us to put a man on Mars, or when President Obama endorsed Joe Biden’s moonshot to cure cancer, but my goals are boiled down to a simpler level like putting a dimmer switch in the living room or a collapsible table in the garage.
Most importantly, I use the bully pulpit to define my enemies before they define me. I’m not getting greyer and fatter, just cultivating a distinguished look that demonstrates prosperity.
While I’ve lived long enough to know that you can never predict the future, I try to plan for likely future scenarios.
This year I am anxiously awaiting the caravan of sleepless nights that’s marching towards me in the form of the daughter we’re expecting. She already took my job through the form of the notice I’ve given to my employer of my intent to be a stay-at-home Dad.
Even though she’s just looking for a handout once she gets here, I plan to love her. Meanwhile, our families are amassing an army of well-wishers to greet her when she arrives.
Imagining a real-life State of Chris Gaffney address each year is more than just pure fantasy. It helps orient me and lets me see all the possibilities before me, which might yet come.
Birthdays are a marking point I use to catalog my memories. I try corresponding these memories to the calendar year, but it all sort of muddles together as time passes.
Because I was born in the year 1980, the math is never too tricky. I can’t fathom how people born in years ending with a seven ever figure out their own age.
My yearly address puts past obstacles in a new perspective and emboldens me to say with something resembling conviction that no matter what the next year may bring I can face it because the State of Chris Gaffney is strong.
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