Today is my birthday. I am thirty-one years old. According to Patton Oswalt, this is not a birthday, and really, after hitting thirty last year, I'm not that excited about being a year older. But it is the way of things, what with linear time always progressing in the direction of increasing entropy, so I have accepted the facts and will do my best to enjoy the day that is, in the most trivial of measures, more mine than yours (unless you are Mary Therese or Lee Newman or Daisy's playground pal Matthew or any one of the other millions of people that certainly share this birthday as well. We can share.)
I have so far celebrated by waking up far too early, discovering a new cavity, and going to someone else's birthday party (the aforementioned Matthew.) If that's sounds gloomy or depressing, then let me spin it and say I am also having a terrific day. My early wake up was a shiny blond toddler smiling and saying "Happy Birthday Baba!", which far and away outcharms my alarm clock. And Matthew's birthday was a blast - held at Pump It Up: The Inflatable Party Zone, and chock full of bouncy glee, as well as pizza and cupcakes (Daisy continues to amaze me with her dexterity and resilience when the grail at the end of the quest is a pink iced cupcake.)
I guess there really isn't a positive spin to put on the cavity. Stupid inconvenient flossing!
The rest of the day appears to be similarly pleasant: Daisy and I are about to head to the playground, then will go out to dinner with Heidi. Tomorrow night I will be imbibing birthday beer at the Long Room on Irving Park, so feel free to stop by.
Daisy's movie is over - we are off to Bixler! Happy Birthday to me!
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