There you have it: My 30th year is underway. For the slowpokes, that means I'm 29. And it's off to a flying start, with the morning a cozy 33 degrees and raining. Actually, there was a little ice left over on the windshield from last night's short-lived snow event, and the coexistence of ice and rain always makes for a happy start to the day. That's right, I said windshield. No bike today. I'm just not that hardcore, okay? Besides, I'm too old to be riding bikes.
Actually, I guess a little foul weather is appropriate given the oft-told story of the day I was brought home from the hospital, my introduction to the world beyond the long-since demolished Wilmington General. There was an ice storm, the kind that coats everything with a reflective glaze and causes trees to snap and power to fail. God's wrath at such an early age. It would serve me well.
That's enough reflection. I do that too much anyway. Now because it's my birthday, I will give you, my reader(s), exactly what you want: Dispatches from the ICW front (my Illustrious Co-Worker, for the newly initiated).
It could be my egomaniacal imagination, but she seems to have a disturbing interest all of a sudden in mountain climbing. And she was shopping for a bike yesterday on Craigslist. Add to that the one-on-one show-and-tell she produced yesterday with a folder full of a lifetime of certificates of achievement, and it feels to me a little like someone is trying to boost her stock around these parts. And I'm the only one here. Most of the certificates were for completing anger management courses and other psychiatric programs associated to her "situation" (that's how she refers to the nightmare of her upbringing). A few were from her achievements at various community colleges. I gotta be honest, if she ever finalizes the divorce from her douche of a husband, she's gonna be hard to resist, with credentials like those. Watch out, Courtney.
Luckily, no one at work seems to know it's the anniversary of my birth. But then, December 25th didn't mean shit to anyone (outside of some pagan sun-worshippers) until centuries after the death of Jesus. So there's still hope for notoriety. Or not.*
* Another note to the newly initiated: I totally don't think I'm Jesus, despite what my friends may tell you. Maybe a minor prophet or some kind of handsome, benevolent demon, but not Christ himself.