You can run, but you can't Ides.
--Time
Today is the Ides of March. Which is to say it is the middle of the month of March, the day Julius Ceasar was assassinated, two days before St. Patrick's Day and three days before my birthday.
I suppose that doesn't mean a lot to most people. But if you follow the link above you'll see I've put a great deal of thought into it over the years. Because the hint of doom that the Ides of March carries with it taints my impending birthday like a worm hole on an apple you just bit into.
It's not like this is a milestone birthday (other than turning the same age as my year of birth minus one thousand years that I pointed out in a previous post). But 60 is on the horizon wagging it's wrinkled butt at me. Not a pretty picture I can tell you.
I am just stuck in my annual pre-birthday lugubrious wallowing in morbid self-pity. It will pass by the end of the weekend. And then I'll have to find something else to mope about (like eight more months of presidential election madness).
When I was turning 41, I ran off to New Orleans for a week and passed my birthday alone on Bourbon Street wandering aimlessly and collecting beads. This was after spending St. Patrick's Day watching parades in the French Quarter and dodging cabbages and condoms being tossed from parade floats by the St. Patrick's Day princesses.
It was one of my best birthdays. Maybe it was because I was surrounded by thousands of celebrating strangers and no one knew it was my birthday. No one felt obligated to pretend they cared. I was blissfully anonymous.
Oh and there was green beer.
Note to self: create a t-shirt that says, "I Wear the Ides of March."
Maybe not.
Etu digressions?
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