In six days, there will be six years between David and I again.
For a while, it had gotten to the point at which I didn’t pay our age gap very much attention. He’s much taller and much more responsible than I am; since I was lucky enough to inherit a fair portion of my mom’s Korean anti-aging tendencies, we almost look the same age. I still don’t really think about it; I only noticed it because I took a sideways glance towards my desk calendar.
In the deepest, cobwebbiest corners of my heart, I still get excited about my birthday. I get excited for the excuse to give myself a bit more freedom than I usually do. I bend my diet rules and I buy myself a gift. I play video games, read stories, and if I’m lucky, I hang out with friends that have nothing better to do than to deal with me being impossible atop my ostentatious birthday train. Even if I’m at the age where I can only get older, fatter, and uglier, on my birthday, I am the king and queen of my own little world, and it’s going to be that way until I die.
In other news, it seems like Simon has allergies, and he hasn’t been eating as much as usual. He sneezes sometimes and always seems to produce eye crust and black boogers. The air quality in my apartment probably sucks, but I think that’s the rule of thumb for Osan in general. I have never lived a place with this much air pollution; the sky is almost always partially obscured by a dense, gray haze.
If Simon gets worse, we’re definitely going to the vet. The poor little guy is going to have to go through a lot before we leave Korea, and he needs to be in good health.