[NOTE: I inadvertently posted this before it was finished. It’s all there now.]
How do you measure a year? Didn’t that used to be a popular Broadway song? Doesn’t matter. I was never good at measuring things. I don’t measure years. I get enough people telling me it’s my birthday. And I know I’m older. Simple as that.
Simple. And superfluous. Age hasn’t changed me. But the past year has. I can measure my birthday, if I can’t measure a year. The bourbon in this year’s glass is about eight years older than the rye I drank last birthday, and infinitely smoother. I didn’t have snazzy Batman cuff links a year ago.
And that’s my year. The whiskey is older and I’m fastening my shirt-sleeves with postage stamps. Some year.
But it was. Well, most of it: the ten months after I met the moll. The cuff links were a Christmas gift from her. I wasn’t drinking alone because she was here. I still read noir, but I’m on the outside looking in. I’m not slowly circling the drain any longer.
But I still don’t know how to measure a year. That’s all right. I can measure a happy birthday. So I did that instead. But that didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know. Turns out a happy birthday has the exact same lovely measurements as the woman who made me a very happy birthday boy on Saturday night.