Sometimes I spend the entire month thinking about what to write, revisiting what I wrote, and polishing rewrites up to the wire to meet my self-imposed 1x/mo deadline. Grateful for the dedicated deep processing, I plant seeds and watch puffy thoughts rain down on fields of ideas, digging for the connective thread that makes it blossom. Playing the role of the writer, the editor, the reader, and the publisher in this creative cycle I choose to stress about for fun. But sometimes I switch to quick spin and do it all in a few hours, because that’s the time I have to give. This is one of those times.

I’m appropriately targeted by Instagram ads and I’m not a bit mad about it. It’s impossible to sift through all the garbage in the sea and frankly I don’t want to. I can think of 8 million things to do with my time rather than scour the internet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t take pleasure in magnificent treasures. If AI bots want to make sense of my information consumption and purchasing habits, find out what makes me tick and dangle little nuggets of joy for my contemplation, that’s more interest than most people take, so I appreciate the effort. A reduced pile of garbage, curated just for me? Makes a gal feel kinda special, if you let it.

And I often do. I’m 100% aware of what’s going on even as I’m falling down the rabbit hole. I ran on the advertising track in journalism school in my college years. Data is gold and algorithms are real. For my big senior year project, I requested and received permission to write an essay on Why I Don’t Want to Be in Advertising Anymore. Preying on people’s weaknesses made me feel gross and I was too good at it. And this was back when research required actual effort and creative wit stemmed from a real live human, not a blank field with a blinking cursor. I applied to grad school to be an English teacher instead. Which I also didn’t become, though I didn’t write a letter to anyone explaining why. Probably should though.

Anyway. It didn’t take long for the bots to discover if they put a cosmic twist on pretty much anything, I’m at least click curious. A magical candle made for every birthdate, featuring its own distinct scent!? Double click, but almost deterred when I plugged in February 9 and out popped the “The Day of Windmills.” Okaaaay. I can spin anything with a thread of positivity. Oh duh, cuz I’m a wind witch! Seriously, ask Alex or Lily. On a boat off the coast of Belize for Lily’s 40th birthday my hair wound up like a tornado all by itself. I threw my hands up in the air and boldly proclaimed I’M A WIND WITCH! And now I just tell people that in a regular tone with rarely regular hair.

Birthdays have always been sort of just another day for me. I often do my taxes. Quite honestly I celebrate myself pretty much every day and don’t love obligatory attention, it all just feels like fielding a lot of empty mechanical gestures. And if I want a party, I throw myself one. One time I invited 30 of my closest friends to a very frozen Lutsen, Minnesota for my 30th birthday in the middle of February and all 30 quite unexpectedly showed up in a snowstorm for the ages to a place that sleeps 12, a kerfuffle or an adventure, depending on your attitude.

I don’t dislike birthdays, I’m just indifferent. But for B, birthdays (historically) have been actively subpar. His parents spent much of his youth engrossed in their own life shit, split when he was young, mom wasn’t exactly interested in running the Mom Department and dad might have had a go, but he died just when 16 year old B had decided it was time to relocate. Day 1 of the time period he refers to as “sleeping out” fell on his 20th birthday. That’s one way to spend your golden birthday.

I’m subpar at all marked holidays. I prefer random Tuesday and why not Sunday celebrations. Fewer crowds, way less pressure, zero expectations. Don’t put me in a calendar box. Also, how do you show up for someone and love them in the way to negate 43 years of meh in just one day? A puffy thought for an idea field another time.

A few months ago I was curious how the cosmos smelled on B’s day, wondered if I would enjoy a scent not made totally and entirely specifically for me (and every Aquarius ever.)

June 20. Not only did the orchid, sandalwood, lemon blend smell divine, but guess what day B was given? The Day of the Perfect Gift. Can confirm, that he is.

I don’t know what the Universe is up to, but I call shotgun.