Lucky?

On the tiny scrap of paper, torn with zeal from the chocolate (and therefore sacred) folds of crusty cookieness:

"Your determination will bring you much success.
Lucky numbers: 4, 8, 27, 28, 39, 42"

and on the back

"Learn chinese - Gift
Li-wu"

I suppose this bodes well for tomorrow's flight.

A few minor musings: For how long are these numbers determined to be lucky? and to what might they refer, I wonder?
And for what reason do I need to know the word gift, is it the act of giving or receiving, is it the same word when it is an offering to someone else as opposed to a petition? I am better at giving gifts than receiving them. We already established that long ago. No one can ever seem to guess how simple the things I want are.

However, today I did receive another marvelous gift from Mom (the thing about birthdays here are that they never end)... a massage from Donna, the family masseuse. There is something so amazing about offering up your pain to the hands of another, especially one who knows your body well. It baffles me that some people don't like to be touched. I suppose I can theoretically understand this stand-point, but if I could have someone else's hands kneading the lactic acid out of my muscles on a daily basis, I would do it in a heartbeat. Seriously.

Now that money might not be such an issue, perhaps I can pursue that avenue in my *real* hometown. Alas, I am still 10 days away from California and missing it. Quite a bit. The consolation (and what a consolation it is!) will be a mini-vacation from the babe, and a wild night on the town with K. on the ocean. (Ok, perhaps it will be a tame night, but we plan to talk very loud and be very opinionated wherever we go. Shouldn't be too hard.)

Tonight I made my peace with NH. I turned out the lights and opened the window, turned on the whole-house fan that sucks the wind in at great force and let the air press up against my face. The bed lies level to the window moulding, and ever since the very first time I set foot in this bedroom, having stepped off the plane from Buenos Aires in the winter, into NY in the sweltering summer, and driven the five hours north to this new place, I would always look out across the horizon, as the late summer sun was setting over the pines, and long to know what my life would be like when it all worked itself out. I am still wondering, pining, aching. But it feels nice for a little while.