Today is my birthday. I spent it working in D.C. I was all set to be miserable and feel sorry for myself, spending my special day away from the handful of people who are actually willing to go along with the fiction that I am special, but it actually turned out to be somewhere close to nice. The people I worked with bought me four amazing cupcakes from Georgetown Cupcake. “Pure bliss baked daily,” exclaims their website.
They ain’t lying. Cupcakes can only keep a man happy for so long, however, but just when I was starting to feel down again, Wife and the munchkins called to sing a surprisingly harmonious rendition of “Happy Birthday” over the phone. I actually got a little teary, right there on a blustery street corner.
And finally there was dinner with my old pal Megan and my new pal Peter, lately of Culture 11 fame. We talked about religion, billionaires, politics, movies, blogs, baseboards, Bill Buckley, and midgets, among other things. It wasn’t as good as opening dubious, handmade gifts from my youngsters and guessing what they are fast enough to avoid hurting feelings, but delightful all the same. All in all it was a good birthday, primarily because I am alive to have it, with all my fingers and toes and senses attached, and with a home full of people awaiting my return. It’s a good life.
