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It’s not to be helped or avoided at this point: it’s my birthday. The first one I’ve really dreaded in about… well, in pretty much precisely a decade. Interestingly, it’s not a big round number type birthday, but the one before it, which to my way of thinking is worse, apparently. Turning 29 stank: it was nothing but a year-long reminder that my twenties were almost over, and that, being still in grad school, I hadn’t gotten much of anywhere, that decade. Turning 30, however, was fabulous: a whole new decade, wide open before me, with endless possibilities. And it turns out to have been an appropriate start to what’s been a great nine years.

But now, here I am at the birthday before the big one again, and while my angst this time out has nothing to do with any feeling of lack of accomplishment (even I’m not that silly, particularly not this summer), I’ve still got that end-of-things feeling. Perhaps I’m deluding myself into thinking that I’d rather be turning 40. Perhaps next year I’ll feel worse rather than better. Perhaps this is just the way of birthdays at this age. But I’ve nonetheless got a touch of the bleh today.

I’ve planned myself a good day, culminating in my flights back to SoCal. So tomorrow morning, this long bout of travel and the aggravation of turning 39 will be over. Instead, I’ll be in the thick of the pre-semester startup, with little time for such whining as this.

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