What Each Birth Month Will Be Like At Eighty
Picture your eightieth birthday. Someone is trying to give a touching speech, and you’re deciding whether to let them finish before correcting a detail. You’ll have eight decades of stories by then, but a few familiar personality traits will still be running the show.
January
January, at eighty, you’ll insist you’re taking things easy while quietly organizing everyone around you. You’ll know what needs doing, who said they’d help, and why nothing has happened yet. You weren’t planning to take charge. Apparently, nobody else was planning anything.
You’ll enjoy being useful, especially when the task comes with permission to be a little bossy. The people who know you best will understand that “I suppose I could help” means you’ve already made a list. They’ll thank you properly. You’ll pretend that wasn’t necessary, then ask whether they’ve read your email.
February
You’ll be the eighty-year-old who wants to hear what younger people are interested in, February. A new kind of music, an unfamiliar way of looking at relationships, a job you didn’t know existed: you’ll have questions. You may have objections, too, but you’ll want to understand the thing before forming them. Spending time with you won’t require pretending the best year to be alive happened before the other person was born. Someone will come over expecting to explain a new idea and discover you’ve already been arguing about it with a friend.
March
March, you’ll still get emotional over a beautiful voice. Eighty years of having feelings won’t have made you casual about them. A few notes of a song can change your expression; a kind message can require a second reading before you’re able to answer.
The people around you will know when something has moved you. You’ll reach for a hand or sit quietly through the last of the music. You won’t feel the need to hide how much you’re enjoying it. If the singer was wonderful, you intend to say so, even if it comes out a little wobbly.
April
At eighty, April, you’ll still want to know whether we’re keeping score. A friendly card game sounds lovely. Winning a friendly card game sounds even lovelier. You’ll listen carefully while someone explains the rules, ask one very specific question, and become suspiciously quiet once play begins. Anyone who tries to go easy on you will discover that you consider this deeply insulting. You want their best effort. You also want them to stop talking while you’re counting your points.
May
May, your eighty-year-old self will have strong opinions about what makes an afternoon pleasant. A comfortable place to sit. Something you actually like eating. Company that doesn’t announce a second destination just as everyone settles in. You’ll have had plenty of time to learn which invitations sound better than they feel.
People will like visiting because you make staying put appealing. You’ll offer another serving without turning it into a negotiation and let a pause in conversation remain a pause. When someone says they should probably get going, you’ll ask whether they want the rest of their dessert first. They’ll sit back down.
June
June, at eighty, you’ll still be acquiring friends in places where other people only manage to complete an errand. A friend will mention someone they’ve just met, and it will turn out you had a long conversation with that person yesterday. You’ll know what they’re looking forward to and which topic makes them laugh. Your oldest friends may wonder how you keep finding new people. To you, it’s obvious: people keep showing up, saying interesting things. Next week, one of them is joining you for lunch.
July
You’ll be the person who knows who’s in the photograph, July. At eighty, you won’t just remember a name; you’ll remember why everyone was dressed up and who refused to stand next to whom. Looking through an album with you will take longer than anyone planned.
You’ll care about passing along the small details that captions miss. Someone’s laugh. The nickname nobody used outside the house. A person younger relatives only know from a serious portrait will become funny and difficult and dearly loved while you talk. You’ll turn back a page because there’s one more thing they should know about her.
August
August, you’ll have a preferred picture from your eightieth birthday, and you’ll ask people to use that one. Turning eighty won’t mean you’ve stopped caring about getting a good picture. You’ll have chosen something you feel good wearing, accepted the compliments, and made sure the person taking the picture got in one, too. Being celebrated will suit you. There may be a moment when the affection in the room catches you off guard, but you’ll recover in time to tell everyone you are absolutely keeping the enormous birthday sign.
September
At eighty, September, you’ll still be saying, “I’d like to learn how to do that.” Once something interests you, you want to understand it properly. You’ll ask thoughtful questions, notice the details, and remember which part you wanted to try again.
You’ll enjoy having something new to get absorbed in. There’s a particular satisfaction in figuring out what wasn’t making sense yesterday, and you’ll be eager to tell someone when you do. Anyone who asks whether you’re keeping busy should probably get comfortable. You have an update.
October
October, you’ll still get butterflies at eighty. Someone’s smile will become a perfectly reasonable excuse to attend an event you were undecided about. You’ll be interested in what they say, then interested in whether they noticed how interested you were. A friend will ask why you keep looking toward the entrance, and you’ll give an answer that convinces neither of you. Later, when that person remembers something you told them, you’ll repeat it to your friend with unnecessary accuracy. Apparently, some conversations still deserve a full review afterward.
November
November, by eighty, you’ll have heard enough complicated stories that people won’t feel obliged to tidy theirs up before telling you. They can admit they miss someone they’re angry with. They can confess that the decision everyone applauded doesn’t feel right anymore. You’ll let them finish.
People will trust you because you can hear something complicated without immediately judging them. You’ll keep their confidence and resist the urge to tell them everything will be fine. They may leave with the same problem, but they’ll know they can talk to you honestly.
December
December, at eighty, you’ll be telling a story that makes someone interrupt with, “You did WHAT?” You’ll look pleased. Certain adventures will have spent years under a much more respectable description, and you’ll finally be ready to explain what actually happened. You’ll be just as willing to make yourself the fool as the hero, especially if the foolish version gets a better laugh. Halfway through, a younger person will admit to a remarkably similar mistake. You’ll want every detail. Your story can wait; theirs is getting good.