Although I feel more like a slug. Two Happy Birthday Martinis (okay, they were doubles, but still, Bombay Sapphire! None of this cheap stuff!) bought for me by Metro and Lori at a lovely pub on the lake, and two beers at the house, added to my increasingly elderly system (and by “increasingly elderly” I mean when I packed for this trip my supplements took up more space than my underwear; i b old, yo) meant that, while I unquestionably enjoyed my birthday, it essentially ended at nine pm, when I conked out.
I guess that’s what was behind my urge to get all Birthdaylicious for weeks in advance: the vague foreknowledge that I’d spend much of my actual birthday unconscious; so overall, there was conservation of Birthday Merriment, in accordance with the universal balancing forces.
That makes total sense.
For those of you with a mind for trivia, I am:
111.2 in Farenheit
317 in Kelvin
235 in human years
5.8 in dog years
Not that I am doglike in any sense of the word; no indeedy, unless you’re dyslexic.