“I was young and foolish then; now I am old and foolisher.”

— Mark Twain

October 30 is my birthday. I share it with the Fonz. I only mention it because the way we stack up with someone famous is a touchstone of our own accomplishments.

A former girlfriend shared her birthday with John Lennon. Is she successful? “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” And me? Maybe I’m not as cool as the Fonz, but does that mean I’m an underachiever?

“Correct-A-Mundo!”

I first realized I wasn’t on the road to fame when I was eight. On my birthday, I was watching Lassie with my older brother. He suddenly turned to me and said, “That kid on Lassie is a millionaire. And what have you done for this family? Absolutely nothing!”

I stammered a defense but my brother was right. It never even occurred to me that he hadn’t given any Oscars speeches either.

When I was nine, I learned another life lesson. All I wanted for my birthday was an official genuine imitation NHL hockey net, a hockey helmet and that great literary classic, A Boy At The Leafs Camp. I’d been especially good that year — well since October 29 — so I was optimistic.

When it came time for my presents there was no hockey book, hockey helmet or hockey net. Instead there was a science book, a paper birthday hat and a game about barnyard animals. Barnyard animals! I mumbled something about horses’ backsides and ran to my room. Oh what fun I’d have reading about photosynthesis, wearing my paper hat and slap shooting plastiscine pigs into plastic pens. Soon I began sighing with joy. Ever louder I groaned with pleasure until I sounded like a disembodied spirit or a third-rate soap opera actor (are there any other kind?).

Mum and Dad came running. “What on earth is the matter?”

“Am I being punished?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t get a hockey net.”

“We didn’t know you wanted one!”

I was flummoxed. Unlike my friends, I’d always put my parents on a pedestal. I thought they knew everything. Apparently I was wrong. Gazing at my game, it slowly dawned on me I might not be the brightest bronco in the barnyard either.

As I aged at least I had one thing going for me. I always kept in shape — or so I thought. A few years ago I went for an x-ray on my birthday. The technician told me to take off my shirt. When she returned, she took one look and mumbled, “You must be here for the mammogram.”

Mammogram? I thought I looked like Chris O’Donnell not Rosie O’Donnell.

When I got home I weighed myself. A few seconds later I tossed the scale out the front door. I hope I didn’t disturb the neighbours when I smashed it to pieces with my sledgehammer. (I might be exaggerating slightly but that’s okay — it’s my birthday.)

Since then I’ve changed my behaviour. Nowadays I hang a towel over the mirror whenever I get in the shower. But only because it’s convenient.

This year I won’t be putting a full slate of birthday candles on my cake. Stupid safety sprinklers! But I will continue to be optimistic about the future. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I haven’t changed much since I was eight. I still believe I’ll win an Oscar, marry the girl of my dreams and publish a bestseller. Which just goes to prove Twain was right. I may have been foolish then but I’m foolisher now.