I woke up early and made a to-do list first thing. I practiced piano. I read an essay and a short story. I learned about a visual artist and a musical one. I made a new vegan recipe, which I carried to the patio for lunch and paired with a tall glass of water. I did a few yoga poses and finished a couple of short Spanish lessons. I went somewhere new, which was actually somewhere old, and took a dozen photos. I picked up litter outside and changed the litter box inside. I met up with game players in the backroom of a board game store and sketched two guys doing stand-up at an insider-y comedy open mic in the basement of a bar downtown. When I went to find a seat, the night's m.c. said that "comics should make room for the normals," which made me laugh.
I set out to walk 12,000 steps throughout the day, but when I reached 16,500 steps around 5 p.m., I decided I might as well do 22,000. So I did.
It was easy to work through the list. The day's activities were laid forth before me like 30 little lights along a path. After the stand-up was over, I strolled up and down State Street before heading up to the steps of the Capitol, where I waited to turn 30.
It was 12:30 a.m. when I arrived back home. I still had one final thing to do, my micro act of giving. I put a $5 bill in a blue envelope with an old Hallmark imprint on the back, a leftover from some greeting card set, and walked to some nearby cheap apartments that have a weird half-stone castle, half-ugly siding facade. A double row of metal mailboxes stood the right of the parking lot.
On the outside of the envelope I wrote:
"It's my birthday.
Buy yourself a snack."
But then I worried, would the finder feel guilty, thinking he or she had forgotten a friend's birthday?
So before placing the envelope in mailbox #3 and closing the door with a satisfying snap, I signed it:
"- A stranger"
And I am that, sometimes even to myself.