February of this year, as it happens occasionally, contains four perfect weeks on our common American Sunday through Saturday calendar. And the final quarter-block of these I have staked claim to as my birth-week. Why confine my celebratory fete to a single day when I can brand a gloriously stout rectangle in bright red sharpie.
It has practical reasons, of course. Lose an argument? Not this week. The resounding endgame to any dispute rolls so easily off the tongue in those three little words: "It's my birthday." Restaurant disagreement? Birthday. Who's turn to cook? Birthday. Who's sock is this in the sink? You bet your ass it ain't mine, not this week.
It was tempting, upon seeing the pristine alignment of chronology February afforded, to picture the glory of boxing in an entire birth-month. But the small victories afforded by that hasty flare of judgement would have had unintended repercussions, for the daily grind of a month-long festivity would have chewed away the anticipation, the run-up, to the big payoff.
So I'll take my week, thank you. And if you don't like it... tough. It's my birthday.
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