I never celebrate birthdays. My wife’s not happy about it but I get awesome presents anyway. And today was special.

Today is my birthday and I couldn’t care less — this year, or any year.

I’m only excited about my birthday insofar as it’s a reminder of how lucky I was to be born when I was born, where I was born — in Moscow in 1980, just in time to capture the final decade of the Soviet Union. Had I been born earlier, my identity would’ve had too many Soviet experiences. I would’ve struggled to embrace the West as much as I did when the country opened up in the 1990s. Had I been born later — well, I’d not have any memories of the Soviet era, of the world that no longer exists.

Anyway, I don’t celebrate my birthdays.

My wife scolds me for this attitude. She calls me dry.

I’m not dry! I’m not a miserable m***er! I’m one of the most positive people you could ever meet. Even when I stumble or fail miserably, I never allow myself to become cynical or pessimistic.

Birthdays though — just not my thing. I’m eternally grateful for having been born, on every day of the year, not just on my birthday. I don’t need a celebration, I don’t expect presents.

The problem, I guess, is that other people feel different. Not that my wife wants a massive celebration for her birthday, but she does want to have some special days and her birthday is one of them. But I tend to stick with my attitude — I don’t want anything for…