Halves

Today is my half birthday. I am 33.5. I like to think of me as the age of Jesus when Jesus came into his prime. My husband likes to remind me it is also the year he was killed. Oh yeah, I guess there is that. My husband also likes to remind me he is only 32.5, making me the older woman. I get no empathy around here.

When I was little we celebrated half birthdays. I went to the store with my mom and paraded in the cereal aisle, marching back and forth on the slippery when wet tile, perusing only the rectangular containers that housed gobs of sugar. I could have bland Cheerios and Wheaties and bran Chex any day, but this was my half-birthday, and it called for a sweet-tooth celebration. I can remember eating Cookie Crisp and Lucky Charms for the first time. I can remember being slightly disappointed with the way my milk became a clouded gray after a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. I can remember the crunch of crunch berries and the cinnamon twinge of Applejacks.

Sometimes on half birthdays my parents would surprise me and pick me up from school at lunch time for a special lunch out. They’d bring the large red “You are special today” platter, and they’d transfer my restaurant food to the celebration dish. It felt good to have a reason to celebrate me. It felt good to have a reason to celebrate a day that no one else really paid attention to. A designated secret holiday just because.

I think just because celebrations call to us often. I think it’s Patty Digh who once mentioned carrying those slim colorful birthday candles around in her purse just in case a reason for a celebration broke out. This reminds me of the time my sister, nine years younger than me, visited me at college for a little-sibling weekend. When we ate lunch in the cafeteria together she noticed the ice cream bar and said, “Oh wow, you get to have sprinkles every single day! I would love to have sprinkles every single day!” I wondered if sprinkles would ever get old for her. Could we really stand to celebrate that much?

I’ll have you know, in Steward kiddio birthday counting protocol, it is always necessary to include the “half” if you are in fact your age plus a half. “Why that’s 6 more months I’ve lived! How I could overlook that?” And plus, every kiddio knows it’s valuable to be just a little bit older than you were. It’s like having a leg-up on the world. Add that “half” and no one is going to want to mess with you. The kiddios, I’m beginning to think, hold all the good secrets. (I think my internet friend Passion-Scribe Lyriic would concur.)

Whenever I think of halves I think of Being John Malcovich and the 7.5 floor where the elevator stops. I can’t remember a single thing about that movie except that there is a 7.5 floor. Halves get our attention. We sum up a person’s philosophy on life based on whether they think a glass is half empty or half full. Why? Because it’s what we do with the middle that matters. That messy gray (gray like the fruity pebble milk) middle. That mundane “I’m half way through another year, so what?” middle. That Eeyore ho-hum “this isn’t one extreme or another – it just is” middle.

I propose the red-platter “I am special today” plates should REALLY be used on the days you think you are in fact not special at all. Because if you can get off when the elevator stops on the half floor, instead of thinking, “Damn elevator. Always sticking when I’ve got somewhere to be.” Why then, then you have the secret kiddio portal to a life lived off the charts.

And with that, I’m off to scout the cereal aisle. (I love you mom and dad! I love that you made the off-beat days the special ones.)