The Annual Acknowledgment of Being Born

I have a thing about birthdays. It's deep, personal, and I'm not exactly certain why I dread them so much. Once they finally arrive, all is usually well. My world doesn't end and I feel just as much like myself as I did the day before. It's a strange phenomenon.

Perhaps it's the disturbing realization that with each passing year, heck--with each passing moment--we're closer to becoming ghosts. Morbid thought, perhaps, depending on your point of view. I think being a ghost could be rather cool.

Point is, birthdays are kind of scary for me. Or, more exactly, the approach of a birthday. I start to feel this crawling panic under my skin. I glance too often at the calendar, or purposely avoid it all together, pretending it isn't there, that Time itself doesn't exist. Sleep doesn't come easily to me in the best of nights, but my insomnia rages even more savagely during these lonely vigils. Much too-wide awake, I wonder and fret about my life and my career--which to me are much the same thing. How far have I come? Am I closer to my dreams than this time last year? What can I do better? How can I work harder?

Then, the birthday event itself comes and everything is all right. Didn't hurt a bit, actually. As the day wears on I start to feel like I'm coasting downhill. Each moment is easier. It's all back to normal, or at least as normal as things ever are for me. Don't get me wrong. I highly value and appreciate this strangeness. Sort of feels like, every now and then, maybe only for a micro-second, I catch the Universe's attention and it winks back with another magic trick before dismissing me again. But it noticed me. And I noticed it back.

Lisa and my beloved four-legged family, and my amazing friends, help me to feel snug and necessary. And I love them fiercely.

My next book whispers to me.

The adventure continues.

I have a good life.

Have a slice of cake, everyone. Always tastes better when it's served to you by a robot.