A Year

Older.

Gross.

The best thing, so far, that happened to me for my birthday--despite a LOVELY and sincere and singular effort by LJ and generous giftitude and cuteness by my mother and father--was that, more than one week ahead of schedule, last Sunday at the airport in KC, the dude checking your ID and your boarding pass wished me a happy birthday. When I said, it isn't quite here yet, he replied, "But I won't see you then."

And, for whatever reason, it made me really happy. And really sad, mostly at just how happy it made me, I guess, I don't know. It was just really nice, and seemed really genuine. How ironic, a rare moment of truth like that from a total stranger, and a bored airport employee at that.

Today on the elevator up to the job of doom, I heard a guy--who I ride with often, he is on 8, the only floor higher than mine--on his cell, saying he had to go, he was on an elevator full of people, they were all wishing him a happy birthday too.

So, he gets off, I say, considering actual glee at the coincidence, Is it your birthday today? Yes, it is. It's mine too! Happy Birthday! He looked at me like I surely was just some jerk who liked to steal thunder. I said, "It's another guy's in my office as well, isn't that funny? Three of us in this building."

I DIDN'T go so far as to say that it was ALSO my coworker--the only other person in my department actually--who lives in Dallas' birthday today. That wasn't THAT odd? Three of us right here in my office.

He did NOT wish me well back. He was probably turning 63. You'd think he would have learned some manners by now.

In the meantime, D--co-working 27th-er--probably won't even come in today. And I was here a little early. And I probably will be tomorrow. I effing hate my birthday. I hate it.