Beagles, Books, and Birthdays
Stephanie bought me a beagle for my birthday. Sure, it was only a stuffed, miniature version of the dog that I would own if I had my druthers, but it was still just about the cutest thing in the world. She also insisted that we shrug off the shackles of our tight budget for the evening and get take-out for dinner, a birthday tradition that she knows always makes my day. I couldn’t have asked for anything more on Wednesday, except maybe for a winning lottery ticket and for the ball not to have gone through Graffanino’s legs.
Work was work was work. There was nothing to complain about and nothing spectacular to report. I had a lot of crap to do, so I did a lot of crap. On lunch, as has become my Wednesday afternoon tradition, I walked across Kenmore Square to Comicopia to check out the new books. And I also managed to take a peek at the enormous hardcover Ultimate Spider-Man collection I’ve been eyeing at Barnes & Noble, which I’m thinking about spending some of my birthday money on on Thursday.
I didn’t have to sit next to any fat men on the train, but the guy I sat next to on the way home reeked of alchohol and tobacco and was hacking up a lung the whole ride. On a normal day, this would’ve irritated the hell out of me. But it was my birthday, and on my birthday I let things slide.
As a matter of fact, I think that’s become the one truly reliable feature of all of my birthdays these past few years: I always give myself a break for the day. I don’t let myself get stressed out. I don’t get as angry at the world. I just try to sit back and enjoy my life and, surprisingly, it works.