64

In the past I've often proposed that I can't stand birthdays that end in 3, as in 33 or 43 or 53 or 63 - or, god forbid, 73. My rationale is that when you reached the _3 you have to stop pretending that you're still in the previous decade, and go ahead and accept that fact that you can round up to the next one; so, last year when I turned 63 I was essentially turning 70. I've now made a not so subtle change: I now hate all birthdays. With that in mind, I turned 64 yesterday. The odd thing is that, despite my grumbling, I don't think I've ever been happier and I've certainly never felt so loved and appreciated. I'm very lucky. Janet is down in Boston running her residency so she missed the big day, which she felt terrible about but I told her not to give it a second thought. I had a lovely quiet day. For breakfast I had eggs and my homemade goetta - for lunch I had dirty rice - and for dinner I had Cincinnati chili (my heart may not survive that onslaught but it was awfully good). Beyond that I read and enjoyed a post-apocalytic film festival courtesy of the Criterion Channel; it just seemed like the appropriate theme for a 64th birthday party. We also got a foot of snow so I was trapped in the cabin anyway. The carts kept me company so I couldn't ask for a better day.

I'm a harsh critic of my goetta, but this was is a definite winner.