It was my birthday a few days ago.

It seems that at some point you cross the threshold between “YIPPIEEEEE!” it’s my birthday — and “Yippie.” it’s my birthday.

I think I crossed that line.

Not that I didn’t care about it all. I got some very nice cards. Karin gave me a book that I’d had my eye on for a while, and also a spiffy PS2 game. Sharyl beaned me with a highly useful gift certificate. And then of course there was the cash. All around, a decent palette of gifts for someone hitting their late-twenties.

Karin and I did dinner at a nice restaurant in Coquitlam, and then went home and split a piece of cake from the grocery store. Chocolate hedgehog or something.

It was all great — cool — wonderful. But at some point the fanfare and glitz around birthdays just seems like a tutu on a gorilla. No matter how you dress it up, you’re getting older, uglier, and less likely to do something wild and amazing with your life. Hooray! It’s your birthday. Thanks. Join the club. You’re old now.

Not that I have much to complain about: Twenty-seven and healthy is a far better place in life than I have been (or will someday be). But that’s just it. This is me coming up to the top of the hill and looking around wondering what’s next: in a bad way, but also in a good way. A little freaked out maybe.

Sigh.

Or maybe I just needed to complain about something today. Cough… Cough…