I turned 40 years old last week. And before you wish me a happy belated, I am more than content to have gone the day without your well wishes. My email was so bombarded with birthday cheer that I spent the better half of the morning scrolling my inbox.

My chiropractor, to whom I have not paid a visit since my last session of physical therapy, wished me a day that was “happy and healthy.” Though, with a touch of irony, I was their most loyal customer when I was unhappy and unhealthy.

My dentist, too, sent me a nondescript birthday message. A passive-aggressive reminder that they still exist, and that their office is still closed on Mondays. They also included a hyperlink, should I feel inclined today, of all days, to book an appointment.

The dealership where I bought my car sent me a congratulations along with a special offer: as I am one of their “most valued customers” they will add $1,000 to the trade-in value of my current vehicle. Their tantalizing deal was paired with a single stock photo of the new 2025 model and an invitation to schedule a test drive.

My financial advisor (who I speak to only once a year), my real estate agent (who I haven’t spoken to in three years), and the branch manager of my bank (who I have never spoken to at all) sent me their best wishes. Their greetings, pulled from a generic template and filled in with my name in big bold letters, were signed with the words “thank you”, which I found oddly appropriate, given it has been my hard-earned money that has kept them employed all these years.

The bakery in my neighborhood sent me a QR code, good for one birthday-inspired cupcake. No special frostings or fillings or add-ons, of course. Just one made from of their basic confetti batter. Still, it is FREE — written in all capital letters of course — and the offer expires soon.

Starbucks has been sending me coupons for a FREE birthday drink for years, and I admit, I have taken them up on it more than once. Some years I have even tacked on a bag of whole bean coffee at the register. After all, it was my birthday.

The best gift this year, however, was a 30%-off coupon for a women’s clothing store. I was puzzled for a moment until I remembered entering my birthdate at the checkout counter earlier in the year, when I purchased a new summer dress for my wife.

If I was younger and perhaps more intuitive, I would sell my birthdate to every company with whom I have ever done business, and perhaps take the liberty of spacing all my “birthdays” out across the year (one a month seems reasonable) so then every few weeks I could indulge in a delight crafted just for me.

But as the years march on, I see these gimmicks for what they are: samples and promotions and coupons to reaffirm my brand loyalty. As if on the anniversary of entering the world, it becomes my duty to shovel coal into the furnace of capitalism. Prudence and cynicism, it seems, develop with age.

So, I deleted, one by one, those auto-generated, faux-intimate, birthday-wishing spam emails, and clicked the “Delete and Unsubscribe” button for good measure. This year, I’m sticking it to the man. And, as if to celebrate my ripened mindset, brightly colored balloons rained down on my Google avatar.