A reflection

It is verifiably true that today was my life's anniversary. The seventh of December, the 341st day of the standard year. The day that the womanising Max Planck discovered the law of black body radiation, initiating the study of quantum physics. The famous 'blue marble' photograph was taken from the final American flight to the moon, Apollo 17. I share birthdays with Tom Waits and Harry Chapin. Many other great things have happened that may or may not be located in an encyclopaedia entry for this date. But can being born on the same day as a certain event give one any sort of connection beyond the trivial? I suppose not. The calendar system is as arbitrary as anything. Yet it is still enjoyable to ponder such things on a day that I specially like to reserve for self upkeep and review.

I have come off a series of rather uneventful birthdays, and I have to say to a degree I enjoy making myself unavailable to well wishers. If today is my day, my one out of the year, then I would like it to be truly my own.

By half past 2 I had not really faced the day. I spent the morning and early afternoon catching up on the woes and tribulations of the economic situation courtesy of the fine people at NPR's Planet Money. It seems like the remedy for problems that originated from uncharacteristically low mortgage interest rates that facilitate the buying of unaffordable homes is to lower interest rates. It is clear that no one knows what portends the future at this point, so the roller coaster will not end any time soon. I also wanted a perspective of life that I could approach that makes me think of better times, so I picked up an old copy of short stories by the great F. Scott Fitzgerald called Flappers and Philosophers. My copy of This Side of Paradise is packed away in another property, which is what I would rather be reading, but perhaps a trip to the library would make me feel better after a gloomy beginning of the day. I'm probably the only man in the world that brings his own books to the library to read.

By 7 pm I had lost the interest to read most entirely. I came to my senses late in the afternoon and called upon a few close friends to enjoy the remaining hours of my special jour. I made a meager lunch and slowly trekked my way to a local establishment. There I made good on my promise to treat myself, on both literary and celebratory aspects. A fellow of mine had me taste some concoction that he had brewed himself, and though I find beer to be most unrefined, I told him it was a fine stock.

By the evening I had mostly regretted the previous assertions that a birthday is to be spent solely on one's self. The evening went by solidly, and it made me happy to see that others were as ready to wish me happy returns as they were to be distracted by the day to day tribulations of their own lives. Mankind, though strange and many times uncouth, is still a social beast. Time spent among friends is always important, and I can do well not to forget. I tend to get a little lost in my own habitations and fall back upon the notions that my person has risen above the needs of the gentleman. Even the most hardened cynic is sometimes ready to reevaluate his or her attitude.

Upon final reflection, my birthday was eventful in its uneventfulness. In a day I had originally intended to avoid and shy away from I now feel reinvigorated with the prospects of new days with new chances and new opportunities on which to capitalise. These difficult times call for a new breed of gentleman to overcome, and I shall be that man.