three hundred sixty-five days

he wakes up. he gets up. three hundred and sixty-five days later, it's another one. another birthday. another day, just like any other. drives to his office. reads a hundred emails. handles one more crisis (or two, or three). listens to some birthday jokes about gray hair, senior discounts, fading memory, aches and pains, viagra.

he says he feels like he's 28, make that 29.

tonight we have other plans in town, a previous engagement, not birthday related.

but tomorrow night when he gets home i'll cook fresh salmon and scoop some ben and jerry's. maybe bake an apple tart? pour a nice dram of macallan. we'll turn down the lights, snuggle up, watch netflix. doesn't get much better than this.


happy birthday, eddy james.