Every year on this date I have an existential crisis. This year I wonder if it’s more manufactured than spontaneous. Maybe not manufactured but anticipated. I expect the cold sweats at midnight, the three a.m. confrontations with mortality, and rapid passing of the decades waking me when my 5:45 alarm blasts, and I meet them with gentle good despair.
Without existential anxiety, this day would lose its zing. Gloomy self-examination and melancholy reflection go hand-in-mitten with the Great Cosmic Stopwatch counting down the days until a funeral director sows my eyes shut.