Like a precursor to just about every event in my life that would follow, I was born late.
My mom would tell you it was three back-aching, bloated, gut-kicking days, but I say I missed the mark by six hours and fifteen minutes.
Had it not been for that final in utero scramble for my car keys, credit card or left shoe, I’d have made it in time to have the awesomely cool distinction of being a math teacher born on Pi Day, an annual celebration of the mathematical constant π, a holiday so geeky even Hallmark won’t touch it.
Instead, I chose to make my debut on the anniversary of the day some ancient Roman guy was brutally stabbed by a mob of his closest and most trusted associates.
Truth be told, the story of my life could be told right there in the delivery room.
Thank you for the birthday wishes, my good friends…and beware the Ides of March!