Evan turned eleven today.
ZZZZZZzzzzzz . . .
Oh, wait, I mean, Happy Birthday, Evan. Wow. Eleven years old. Way to go . . . that’s really . . .
Hey, remember last year when you turned ten! Now that was a birthday for the ages, wasn’t it?! A whole decade! Two whole hands! Yay for ten! Good times, good times. And now you say you’re eleven, huh? That’s really . . . you know . . . great. So, here’s a cupcake, kid, go run and play. Come back next year when you’ll be twelve! A whole dozen! Won’t that be something?! See you then!
What is it with the number eleven? Stuck between the number upon which all numbers are based and the commercially appealing dozen, it’s so completely under-appreciated. It’s so insignificant that of all the two-digit numbers it takes the least effort to even write. A couple of slashes and your’re done. That’s how much value we place on it. It’s the “whatever” number.
The problem with eleven is that it has nothing to hang its hat on. We’re number one, two’s company, three’s a crowd, four seasons, five fingers, six-packs, seven days a week, the eight ball, nine planets, a perfect 10!
What’s eleven got? There are twelve months and thirteen is lucky. What does eleven have? There’s no eleven of anything. And even if by some horrible mistake you accidently end up with eleven of something and someone asks you how many you have, what do you say? You don’t say, “I’ve got eleven!” No, you say, “I don’t know, I’ve got like 10 or 12.” We’re ashamed to associate ourselves with eleven. We’re a bunch of numeralists against eleven. We’re anti-XI.
In Evan’s case, we can attempt to manufacture a bit of excitement by saying, “Hey, guess what? Your name rhymes with your age! Isn’t that cool? Huh? Huh?” Nope. Already been there and done that. Seven stole eleven’s thunder on that one four years ago. Eleven’s got nothing new to offer.
It’s so bad that in the LDS church, now that Evan is eleven, we will keep him and others like him off to the side by themselves. They won’t meet with the Bobcats or the Webelos or the Boy Scouts or any group of boys with a cool name. No, they’ll meet in a special group we affectionately call “The 11-Year Old Scouts” as if to ensure there is no mistaking them. They’ll be in that transitionary, awkward no-man’s land between Primary and Young Men when the best thing we can think to do with them is to keep them away from the other boys. After all, they’re eleven. We don’t want that rubbing off on anyone.
Now some may say, “Hey, what about 9/11? Eh? Eh? That put eleven on the map.” I’m sure the number eleven is very grateful to the terrorists for this. They had thirty-one days to pick from, and they chose eleven. Like eleven didn’t have enough troubles. In the words of Miracle Max, “Why don’t you just give me a nice paper cut, and poor lemon juice on it?” I bet eleven was always picked last when the numbers got together to play.
Face it, who remembers their eleventh birthday? You remember ten. You remember twelve. You remember thirteen because you were a teenager. You remember sweet sixteen. But nobody remembers eleven. Did you have a cake? Probably not. You know why? Candles come in packs of ten, and your mother couldn't bring herself to buy a whole extra pack. "We'll have a cake next year when it’s a real birthday," she said. Or if you did have a cake, there were probably ten new candles and that short burnt one she found in the back of the kitchen drawer. Evan got a dozen donuts this year for his birthday cake - an ironically cruel reminder of eleven's more famous neighbor. He did have eleven candles, but only because he had a sister that turned nine this year, and the math worked out. Enjoy it while you can, Evan. Because years from now when the real birhdays happen, you just won't remember this one. Poor, poor eleven.
And so, for a whole year now, when people will ask us how old Evan is, will we ashamedly murmur, "I don't know, he's like 10 or 12 or something?" Or will we have courage and say with pride, "He's eleven!" Time will tell. We must learn to fight our own numeralism, and embrace eleven as if it were just like the rest of the numbers (even though we know it isn't.)
Well, as I wrap this up, know that we love you, Evan, despite your age. We know you will always aspire to be more than eleven. But for now, you go be eleven and be proud, son. Happy Birthday! It's getting late and I need to publish this before your birthday is over or it won't be much of a birthday wish, will it? You know me, I always do my best work in the eleventh hour.
Hey . . . wait.
