From way over on the other side of the country, my family sent me a cake! It came in a big box packed with styrofoam and dry ice, like a transplant organ. I don’t want to think about what that must’ve cost. And I don’t want to make up a story about how I couldn’t possibly eat the whole thing myself, because we all know that would be a lie.
Plus I got the Criterion versions of my three favorite Akira Kurosawa movies, and a book of imaginary creatures, and one of those creepy e-cards with a talking cat. And, since I’m in the habit of treating every day like it’s my birthday, I got myself the new Ghostbusters game last week. (I’ve only played a little bit; so far my favorite thing is the character design).
And it’s not even over yet! Tonight I get to go to a semi-fancy restaurant in SF that I’ve heard about but have never actually gone to. And then a bar on the bay with a creepy wax Arabian. So far, this is already up there with they year we got a Matterhorn at Farrell’s on Memorial Drive, and the year I got to take a bunch of friends to see Raiders of the Lost Ark. Apparently, the trick is to let other people plan it for me.
And I’m either getting more mature, less vain, or more lazy, but the march of years isn’t taking the same psychological toll on me as it has in the past. Sure, I finally have to come to terms with the fact that my beard isn’t “graying,” it’s almost completely white, but on the bright side: I’m in a position where nobody really minds if I look like a derelict. So if I haven’t beaten the aging process, at least it’s a draw.
Since I’ve moved out here, I’ve met four other people with the same birthday (one on the same year in the same state, which makes me wonder what was going on in Georgia in October 1970 (apart from the obvious)), so wish all them a happy one as well.