happy birthday, dear wednesday

This trite little childhood poem reasserted itself in my life recently, causing irritation of the same ilk as Myers-Briggs categorization or Hogwarts sorting:

Monday's child is fair of face
Tuesday's child is full of grace
Wednesday's child is full of woe
Thursday's child has far to go
Friday's child is loving and giving
Saturday's child works hard for a living
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

Note: I was mistakenly born on a Wednesday.

Somewhere in the more correct annals of time, it is written that Wendy is, in fact, a Thursday.
(art by anji one - thank you)

No matter. This time measurement business is an artificial construct anyway.

But if we ARE going to bother measuring it out as we do in days weeks months years, let's get one thing straight: it's happy birthDATE, not happy birthDAY. I have no intention of instigating reform on the thriving card and balloon industry, nor do I expect people to change up the lyrics to that oft-sung "Happy Birthday" song (note: Warner Chappell makes millions in royalties off that tune still; it doesn't go into the public domain until 2030). However, I do plan on wishing people a happy birthday every time their birth day roles around. Which will be once a week. I need more celebration - and more cupcakes - in my life.

one is the loneliest number

The only human I have seen in the last 24 hours was a woman who just knocked on my door accidentally, thinking mine was the home of the surprise birthday party (nope. that'd be the neighbors across the way, apparently).

I should make use of all this alone time learning how to dance as Ethiopians do. When I was in Yemen last year, I went to an Ethiopian wedding, and the way all the men and women moved their shoulders bordered on unreal. I was expected to dance similarly, and my efforts unsurprisingly provoked giggles. Or pity. I'm not sure.