Today was a regular day, just like any other day. A perfectly normal day. Except that Lisbeth gave me a present as soon as I woke up (a really sharp dress shirt). And except that the guys at work teased me all day (I held the title as the oldest guy in the office for quite some time.) And that Lisbeth gave me another gift when I got home (two books that I’ve been wanting.)
But other than that, it was a perfectly normal day. Except for the stream of emails and Facebook messages from friends and family, wishing me well. And except for the fact that I was born exactly forty one years ago, at exactly one minute before midnight. (And, as my mother sometimes reminds me, after twenty four hours of labor.)
Birthdays are overrated. We have way too many of them, but if we only celebrated once a decade, we’d become very depressed indeed.
Why haven’t you posted all month you old fart?
Well you see, I’m incredibly decrepit. And, as you can see from the picture, the little one weighs down on me horribly. She doesn’t seem to mind though…