When Can I Stop Counting?

"I'm 37!"
"What?"
"I'm 37, I'm not old."
"Well, I can't just call you 'man'."
"You could say Dennis."

I keep thinking of this scene from Monty Python's ridiculous movie, emphasizing the point that even 37 is "not old".

I've just upped my annum count to 27. Is there a point when I don't have to celebrate anymore? I really don't care to celebrate the day. I mean, I do expect it to be a good day, and won't refuse being taken out to dinner, or what not, but I really hate to be celebrated.

This year, I had more people call, text, email, or say Happy Birthday more times than any other year ever in my life. I felt remembered, which was cool. But around mid-afternoon I was ready to have the day overwith. I felt like Scrooge "Every idiot who goes about with a [happy birthday] on his lips, should be boiled in his own pudding and buried with a sprig of holly through his heart!"
Maybe a trio of spectres will show up and help me mend my birthday-hating attitude. If they don't, I'll know that I'm perfectly justified.
In the photo above, my cheek is poofed out. I didn't know why, until I studied the picture. There's a Reese's cup wrapper in my hand. Foolish indulgences. Birthdays are evil! My hips were trying to tell me that the whole time, and now they're saying, I told you so you 27-year-old sap!
That's when I pull the age card, and remind them that they're just as old. That shuts 'em up. But the sad thing is, HIPS DON'T LIE, darn it.