I’m getting pretty good at this annual contest of cheating death. Twenty-six straight successes! But the older I get, the more my birthday is just another day. I’d be hard pressed to remember how I spent any of the past few years. Last night was about as low-key as it gets: some homework, talked to family and some friends, watched the Wednesday kick-ass lineup (Lost, Alias, Gilmore Girls). I’m going to London this weekend, but besides a dinner of my choice with the family on Saturday, I don’t have anything planned.
I had a good time on Tuesday, though. I got together for lunch with Sarah T, and she treated me to Vijay’s, an awesome Indian place in Kitchener. I got to catch up on what she and Leo have been up to, and talk about the whole job search and working life. Oh, and about being old; her birthday was a couple of weeks ago. We’re trying to make plans to have a dinner outing with Lee, which it looks like we’ll fit in before my reading “weekend” break later this month.
I am struck by how odd it is to be 26. Or possibly it’s just the number itself. Sure, 25 is ripe for joking about old age … quarter of a century … 1/4 life crisis. Twenty-five is a perfect square; it is the sum of two perfect squares. Getting that old is lost in the novelty of the number sometimes. What’s so special about 26? It’s just thirteen twice, and what good is ever said about thirteen? At least I have a power of three to look forward to next year … I wonder if it will be my last? I should make it my goal to have two more after that! 
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