Yesterday, December 8th, saw the 41st anniversary of my time on this hellish blue, green planet. 4 decades of laughter and tears, joy and pain, pleasure and prescription medication, and through it all I have changed very little. I still maintain that unerring ability to make a complete and total ass of myself (just add alcohol).
Take, as a perfect example, Saturday night. A small group of friends, my girlfriend and yours truly decided to hit the town and have a wee bit of an early birthday celebration. I, being the consumate gentleman that I am, took the time to go around my friends individually to ask them to be on their best behavior as this would be the first time they would meet my beautiful Southern belle.
I took the time to make myself as presentable as is possible given my rather unflattering physical appearance. Everything was going rather swimmingly; polite conversation filled the air, and the small talk quickly turned to laughter the mixture of booze and comfort in each others company took hold.
It was shortly after this that Mr Arthur Guinness decided it was time to smash me in the face and knock me senseless. By all accounts, from reliable witnesses, I was last seen with my lovely dress shirt tied up in a pretty knot, revealing my none too small beer gut, dancing in the middle of the bar in a provocative fashion and demanding that all contents of our table be removed so that I may take my burlesque show tabletop.
I remember nothing of this, but am glad to report that I still have a girlfriend (a rather wildly amused one at that), and all my friends are still on talking terms, albeit unable to look me straight in the eye.
So with that, I herald in the start of my 42nd year, hangover cured, and plans made to stay home with a pot of coffee and a good book when the big day next arrives.