It’s my birthday too, yeah.

10 January 2002—Another birthday traveling, this time eighteen thousand feet above the Pacific, flying from Honolulu to San Francisco, the other time barrelling north on I-5 in a diesel truck hauling a trailer, from Los Angeles to Emeryville. Both trips heading home. The other time, in 1994, was moving day for Kitty and Banzai, when I had to cut away the blanket that had wrapped itself around the truck’s drive train. With any luck I won’t have to perform similar surgery on this airplane.

Holidays, for the most part, escape me. I don’t know why. New Year’s, Presidents’ Day, Fourth of July, Christmas—whatever. Interesting: in this recent frenzy of patriotism, I feel self-conscious admitting my being nonplussed about our day of independence. I appreciate it, of course, as I’m grateful to have the freedoms I do as an American. The holiday is a fine thing; I just don’t get that excited about it.

With the exception of Passover and Yom Kippur, I’m still working out how I feel about the Jewish holidays. I observed Hanukkah this year more than I had since I was a child, and even then I don’t recall doing the blessings every night. I wouldn’t have done them this year either if it hadn’t been for Sarah. She loves the holiday, and I’m happy to celebrate it with her. I’m open to learning more about other Jewish holidays and celebrations; sometimes I feel left out because I for some reason I can’t see the beauty and magic in them that other people can.

Ah, but birthdays.

I love birthdays. Birthdays are utterly unique, even when you share them with other people. If you believe in systems of astrology, it may mean that you share more than one day out of a possible 365; you may share a particular place in the world.

A year ago today my niece Meredith was born. My sister-in-law, Sharon, had gone past term, and the doctor induced her labor. Had Meredith been born a day earlier or later, our birthdays would have been merely close; I doubt then it would matter if we differed by a day or a week. But the coincidence, I imagine, will give us a special bond, something we wink at each other miscievously as if our shared birthday means we can read each other’s thoughts, a game no one else in the family will be in on. So far she hasn’t displayed any indication that might validate my hunch, but time will tell. Happy birthday, dear little Meredith!

Other birthday sharers in my life, past and present: Seth, who used to be involved in campus politics with me; Julie, who was even born the same year, and who used to be a close friend; and, most recently discovered, Sarah’s cousin Johnny, born only a few hours before me. Happy birthday, Seth. Happy birthday, Julie. Happy birthday, Johnny. Happy birthday to all the January Tenthers!

Still, even considering all the people in the world who probably share it, it’s my day. I haven’t had that much time to get excited about this one, number 32, what with the Hawaiian journey that came to an end today. But my sweet Sarah will collect me from the airport, we’ll have a simple dinner (the fancy one is tomorrow night, at the Slanted Door in San Francisco), and we’ll have a dessert of Mother’s Flaky Flix (the chocolate variety, of course), which I only get to eat one time a year, a personal tradition.

I hear there will be presents, too.