I had a birthday, and got depressed.

No, not because I'm one year older and, therefore, closer to death. I wouldn't go back to my twenties, or even my early thirties, if you paid me in a flash-forward vision of the next digital social networking craze (complete with venture capital and a posse of Harvard drop-outs). No, I got depressed because I realized that if I have to hear the words, "Finally 21!" from every other adult male on every birthday for the rest of my life, I may have to learn that martial art that allows you to silence vocal chords and cut off oxygen, while looking liking your caressing said victims neck.

I think I exhibited an appreciable degree of tolerance the first 500 times I heard said words, or version. ("Finally 24," "Your of drinking age," ect.)

At the very least, come up with something original, like, "Do you remember when Superfriends was on at 6:00 am on Saturdays?" or even "Happy Birthday! How old are you?" I know it's uncomfortable asking a woman how old she is in a city where age is viewed as a plague...but so is dealing with the knives coming out of my eyes.

Just for today, I beg, please just ask me my age.