When I was a kid, I always thought that the saddest day of the year was Oct. 9 -- the day after my birthday. A year of anticipation has passed, the presents have been unwrapped and there's nothing to look forward to but leftover cake. (One of my most pleasant recurring childhood memories was snagging leftover cake pieces off my mom's cheap plastic plates.)
Now that I'm older, the saddest day of the year is probably my birthday itself. I'm a year closer to middle age. No, I'm just kidding -- my birthday was a pleasant experiance, as usual. Ian bought me a purple toy lightsaber so we can have duels in the living room (or, as Claire would prefer, outside). I can act the part of Mace Windu, because not only do I have a purple saber, like Samuel L. Jackson, I'm a bad mo-fo. I also got Iron Man on Blu-Ray, a good map of Australia for my trip and various other knick-knacks. Not a bad haul, altogether.
This year, Oct. 9 is kind of a transitional day. I've got the usual day-after-birthday stuff going on, but also have been working on my grad school application and -- of course -- am planning for surgery tomorrow. I'm not worried, but do wonder if I should be erring on the side of caution and getting some more stuff in order. Eh, I'll probably be safe just not eating after midnight -- just like a Mogwai!
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