My favorite days

September 24:

This day is a stand out for me. A day like no other. For many years I held "September 24" parties. Nothing special happened on this day, as far as I know. It is not my birthday (or my half birthday). I would imagine my love comes from the aesthetic appeal of the word "September" and my fondness for the number 24. Separately they are good things - together, they constitute my favorite day.

I am thoroughly jealous of anyone who has this birthday, and will likely force it to be an important day in my life somehow. (ie, demanding it as a wedding date, holding labor until this day, not pulling the plug on my dad until this day)

February 19:

This one is a bit more obvious. It is my birthday. As I have gone through life, many of the coolest people I have met have February birthdays - so I feel cosmically privileged to be predetermined for this group.

As a result of this special assignment, I have also become a bit obsessed with the number 19 (some might recall my 19th birthday party).

February 29:

This is a truly blessed day...or a completely screwed up concept - however you wish to look at it. The fact that someone along the way said "Hey, instead of making every day longer," or "Let's alter the calendar a bit" said "Every 4 years we will add a day!" is astounding to me. Even more mind-blowing is that others agreed ("Oh yes, brilliant idea!" "Here, Here!").

However, they gave the day to poor, short, slightly self-conscious February - and for that, we are thankful.

The obligatory (post) birthday post

On February 19 I turned 25. In my mind this is a stellar age. The last age-related changes (excluding politics) are made this year; I can rent a car (without the outrageous underage fees), my car insurance goes down (or would if I owned a car), and I believe I can run for a house seat (though that is political).

I am not afraid of growing older. I don't dread it. I have very few regrets from my past - and everything is looking good for the future. However, after much contemplation, I have made the decision that this will be my last birthday for approximately five years.

It is not the progression of age I am hesitant to encounter - it is all the Ned Ryersons of the world that make me not want to continue my climb towards 30.

I detest the possibility of this scene:

Ned: "So, how old arya?"
Me: "27"
Ned: [elbow jab + chin chuck] "Almost 30!"
Me: "#@!*"

Grandma: "Ned said he ran into you at Wal-Mart..."

So, in order to avoid hurting my grandmother, I will continue to be 25 until I hit 30 (possibly 31, depending on how bitter I am in 5 years).

Note: This will, in no way, effect the necessity for birthday parties or gifts. I will simply continue to have 25 candles (or another arbitrary number).

So, so, so cold

**This post is not suitable for any reader who might think I am still 12**

I love words. I honestly do. I am not a "word person" per say. I am not good at Scrabble, and crossword puzzles make me feel like an incompetent idiot. However, hearing and occasionally using great words can certainly ameliorate my affect. Words are elegant, they are recherché. An extensive vocabulary is not only impressive, it is worthy of envy.

The English language, for the most part, is capable of conveying an endless supply of feelings, meanings, ideas, actions, items...etc. The vast array of words provided are completely malleable and a bit ductile, more gaseous than solid - they can be manipulated to my whimsy and incorporated at my will.

Which brings me to this morning.

This morning when I left for the gym (545) it was 11 degrees Fahrenheit. I was wearing a t-shirt under a sweatshirt under a hoodie under a hooded overcoat. My face and neck were wrapped in a scarf. Under my pants I wore sweatpants and a pair of shorts. My feet and hands were appropriately encased in fabric.

A whole world of words at my disposal, but all I could say was, "Damn, it is cold. It is damn cold."

Ah. English.