Having a birthday last Sunday has made me pensive and recalcitrant about posting entries. For the last few years, I've turned these milestones into festive events, surrounding myself with a security blanket of friendship to blot out the creeping moodiness. I don't like my birthday, much in the way I don't like New Year's with all its taking stock and resolutions and that goddamned ball in Times Square. It feels like I'm being called into account about something. This year I'm far away from my friends in New York, missing many of the little things that make them special. I couldn't e-vite everyone to my favorite bar to laugh and drink and celebrate with me.
D. is working incessantly and tumbles into bed exhausted by 9pm every night, when he loses the valiant fight to keep his eyes open. I can't even be mad at him for forgetting that Sunday was my birthday; in fact, I felt guilty for not busting my hump, too, so we could commiserate. We spent the day in Copenhagen, wandering through Vesterbro and Christianshavn. The day was tinged with an air of melancholy. It's all a state of mind, but I couldn't get rid of it. I know it will pass.
I kissed the nape of his neck tenderly when I went to bed last night, and he sighed contentedly in his sleep.
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