A couple years ago, my wife pointed out that I get depressed around my birthday. I hadn’t noticed it myself, but I had to admit she was right because, every year, she’d notice me wallowing in a pool of my own tears.
|“Oh, your birthday's coming soon, isn’t it?”|
Of course, if some kind reader were to erect a statue to me, that would probably solve the problem.
|I already got started.|
The year after that, I jumped out of a plane.
This year, I didn’t have anything really big planned. Instead, I set up a whole bunch of smaller things over half a week. I’m going to cover one thing each day this week. Today: my actual birthday.
On May 16, 1970, I was popped out into this world through the magic of labor-inducing chemicals. Forty two years later I celebrated the event on the exact day of my birthday in three ways:
One: by having a freaking huge cake from Costco.
Okay, not that huge.
Third: I had Indian food. It’s been years since I was allowed to eat Indian food, because my wife noticed a certain gastric side-effect associated with my eating it. For my birthday, she knuckled under and let me have some.
|She regretted it the next day.|