I just thought of a clear explanation for why I don't celebrate anything (seriously: anything).
If my life ever reaches a point where I don't feel like I'm really living until Friday rolls around, or until Christmas or my birthday arrive, or until the Mets win a World Series, etc. etc., then a piece of cake won't help. If periodic arbitrary bits of elevation serve as dog-track rabbits - if they're the arrival point - then I'm absolutely fucked. I'd be living Peggy Lee's nightmare.
But I don't fall out of love with the universe when events go this way rather than that way, so I'm never awaiting an arrival point. And if you're not awaiting an arrival point, then what's to celebrate, beyond the unceasing present moment?
That said, if you waited in line all day on a cold Minneapolis afternoon to buy a bottle of Surly Darkness imperial stout, and you were to offer me a taste of it just because it's My Special Day, I'll absolutely play along. And I'll also gladly pretend to celebrate your birthday.
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