My wife's birthday is coming up and our home now has a layer of birthday cards in its interior. My wife will not open any of them until her actual birthday, but that's another day's blog entry.
The point I want to make is this: I am terribly impressed by those who send birthday cards regularly. These people seem to me to be wizards of consideration and efficiency. I myself have tried to keep track of such things. I had a Palm PDA for a while but it died and I can't afford to buy any more disposable computers. I made a list of birthdays of people I know, but I've lost it somewhere in my desk, and even before I did, I forgot to check it regularly.
As for my brain, it has room for approximately six birthdays. I'm not kidding. I know mine, my wife's, and both of my brothers. I have a general idea of my parents' and my sisters. Oh, and I know Shakespeare's as well as anyone does. One of my neices was born on Groundhog Day and one of my nephews was born on Victoria Day so I sort of remember those.
And that's pretty much it. It's entirely possible, of course, that all this makes me a bad person. But I prefer to think it's normal and that Jane, Stacey, my Dad, and everyone else who remembered Vanessa's birthday in time to send a card are saintly models of virtue.
If any more cards arrive tomorrow, I may have trouble keeping up the illusion.
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