Today is my birthday, though, according to the birth certificate I received too late to go to Mexico for my brother's wedding, I wasn't born until 9:18 PM twenty-eight years ago. My mother never told me much about my birth, except that I had wide shoulders. I sometimes joke that, as the last of nine children, by the time I was born, my mother's birth canal was essentially a Slip 'N' Slide. I'm sure she appreciates that.

I am told I share a birthday with luminaries like Barry Manilow and Newt Gingrich, and if I were the type to believe in astrology and numerology, I might attribute more significance to this than there is. As it stands, the furthest I'm willing to go is that these men probably used up all the suck for people born on this day. To wit, I also share a birthday with Igor Stravinsky, M.C. Escher, Dean Martin and the Discovery Channel. From what I can tell, no one famous died on the day of my birth, so I can't claim to be the reincarnation of anyone. No one important, anyway. Besides, if I did happen to believe in such things, I would probably place more importance on the date of conception, and frankly, that's more than I want to know.

I suppose now would be a good time to take stock and all that, but I'm tired of contemplating my station in life. Not much to contemplate, really. Yes, my best friend is getting married, but I hardly feel pressured to undergo that sacrament. My parents have plenty of grandkids, and I am in no rush to have any children of my own. I'm too busy trying to figure out my own direction to worry about steering the direction of others. Plus, you know, it takes two to tango.

This seems to be about the age where people want to settle down, and I suppose, given the right partner, I would be willing, even eager to. But I've seen enough marriages of my contemporaries go bad already that I am sufficiently suspicious of the enterprise to believe what the palm reader told me: I should wait to get married until after 30. Besides, as I've pointed out, I'm not in much danger there.

I really love Portland, but I'm starting to lose faith that I'm going to be able to make it work. Or at least that I'm going to be able to make it work in any way that I'll be able to admit in public.

Still, that's all just aimless worry, and to quote a song I like, "Most things I worry about / never happen anyway." Today was pleasant, if nothing else. I was able to get outside, go for a nice bike ride, stopping to watch people play basketball in the park. I stopped at the Cork to have iced tea and read the paper, and then I dropped by the Jones place to visit with the baby and the dog. And the Joneses, too. Got an early run in, and so on. I can't say I got much accomplished, but I don't see any point in being too hard on myself just now.

So, anyway, happy birthday to me...