Unhappy Birthday.

It was my birthday yesterday. I cleaned the kitchen sink by way of celebration. The rest of the day was a liturgy of misadventures and malfunctions. In fact, it was a pretty awful day one way and another, possibly the worst of the year so far.

What surprised me, though, was my reaction to remembering of the fact, which I didn’t do until I came into my office first thing and saw the little parcel and card sitting on the chest of drawers next to my desk.

The fact is, you see, that until I reached the dizzy age of 30 I had always welcomed birthdays because they were carrying me forth to a time when I could feel my adult status to be fully vindicated. After that I gave them little attention, but this year my immediate reaction was to feel depressed. I don’t think a birthday has ever actually depressed me before. Maybe it was because it brought me to the age my mother was when she died of cancer, but I’m not convinced. I think it’s simply the fact that I’m unsuited to being old. And the period covering November, December, and January is my least favourite time of year.

But at least my kitchen sink is clean, for now.