Many Happy Returns
One of the hardest things to get used to about adulthood is the fact that its illusions are not fewer than those of childhood, but only more persistent. I can't shake this idea that there is something special about a birthday, even though the idea is proved false, year after year; and however guarded I am, however low my expectations, I am disappointed and saddened yet again.
I got presents, a few. It's the thought that counts, they say, an adage which is meant to excuse the giftgiver for laying a peculiar oddity at your feet and looking up hopefully for the grateful nod. My brothers each decided, independently, that what I required was the first season of Beverly Hills 90210 on DVD. I am nonplussed, but I laughed.
I got cake. I got two cards, one from the gang at work, one from my widowed aunt. Some more may trickle in; the mails aren't what they used to be.
I was remembered by email, by the diaspora of my past and by the unmet friends of the internet, and other virtual greetings. Some were from real people and some were from robots. Such is life in the future.
The day itself was mostly a good one. It just wasn't "special". I spent time with people whose company I enjoy, and did the things that give me mild pleasures, and avoided most of the things that give me mild displeasure. I went out in the morning and came in at night, and after I'd had enough of the giddy good times, I went to bed and slept.
Many happy returns.
