I hate anniversaries, mostly because they're not worth commemorating.
Yesterday was the three-year anniversary of my pacemaker surgery. My life is as meaningless today as it was three years ago, probably more so.
Tomorrow is the one-year anniversary of the great apartment fire. My life isn't worse off because of it, but it isn't exponentially better, and I will continue to live with the repercussions of said fire for at least several more months.
As it turns out, the one-year anniversary is also the start of my second annual pilgrimage to Gulf Shores, Ala., with mom. Last year we departed about 10 days later, but mom's schedule allows her to depart tomorrow, so we depart tomorrow.
Six days on the road and in Gulf Shores with my mom, not exactly the dream of most single, 38-year-old men. It's winter in Minnesota, however, so I'll take what I can get.
My junior year in high school was the toughest time of my life. In hindsight it was all rather ridiculous and stupid, but it was tough at the time, and I learned a few life lessons the hard way.
I'm going to have a lot of time to ponder my life here in Minnesota, and I will for a few hours. And maybe for a minute or two I'll forget all about it, but it's the life I have to come back to next week, whether I like it or whether I don't.
But given I don't have a choice, when I do come back, all hell will break loose.
I promised myself I was going to die this year, and the death of me begins in Gulf Shores.