Malcolm Gladwell

No.

I haven't had a birthday party since.

It's worse than that.

I don't remember anyone's birthday.

I know my mother's, but not my father's.

One of my brother's, but not the other.

One of my daughter's was born in July and the other in August, but I'm not sure which is which.

If I were to name my five closest friends, I think I know the birthday of one of them.

And that's because it's January 1st, and I just saw him on January 1st, and he said to me, with tones of great injury and reproach, Today is my birthday.

But I am sure I'll forget that fact really soon.

On this particular subject, the overloaded lifeboat that is my memory is refusing all further passengers.

And by the way, my mother reminded me, it's not just birthdays that I have a problem with.

It's any kind of arbitrary celebration.

I was very fond of Mrs. Brown.

But one day at school, she brought up Christmas and Santa Claus.

Yes.

They're linked, by the way.

My disdain for Santa Claus and my disdain for my birthday is part of the same impulse.

Yes, of course.

Yes, of course, says mom, the therapist.