November 11, 12, 13.
These were the options presented to my Mom when considering my birth. Thirteen was bad luck, and she'd be busy celebrating her own birth on the 12th. Plus, 11/11 would be easy to remember into old age.
So plans were made.
But I did what I always do.
I line up the glasses. I obsess over the font. I fret over color coordination.
And I make the plans. I'm a planner.
So at 1:46am, November 5, 1975, I came into the world. Feet first.
The way a planner intends.
My brother's delivery doctor would eventually run for President of the United States. My delivery doctor was hung over from a party when he performed the C-section.
He was not a planner.