Meh. It’s my birthday.
I’ve never been one to go ga-ga for my birthday, or expect the known free world to acknowledge my existence, and shower me with love, attention and adoration just because this is the day I was born on a few ice ages ago. I have good friends and family, and well wishers, and if someone wants to make a deal of it (big or small), I’m grateful and happy as can be — and usually just a wee little less happy than that to let it slide without a peep. I love when people remember, and don’t fault those that don’t (hell, I never remember anyone else’s, so why should I get even a little upset if they don’t remember mine?).
I’ve never felt the pressure of age or getting older, and never looked forward with fear, dread and loathing at the big waypoint birthdays — 20, 25, 30, etc. A birthday to me is a way to mark the time as it passes: “Oh, its been another year. Neato.” Currently my age is somewhere between speed limits on surface streets, leaning toward the direction of multi-lane, divided roads. Talk to me when I hit highway speeds.
Today I do feel a little down and drained, and I think it has to do more with spending the last four days performing an archaeological dig in my server room at work to unbury years of neglect, and many generations of lazy techs letting shit slide rather than do things the right way, rather than today having anything to do with a biological coincidence. I’m feeling a bit quiet and a smidgen low. *shrugs* This too shall pass.
You’re only as old as the girl you feel… and if that’s the case, I’m damn near a spring chicken. Who am I fooling — I’m a gray, grizzled, wrinkled old cock. *grins* But, I am very immature for my age, so I have that going for me.
happy late birthday