My years are not advancing as fast as you might think, but perhaps there are some changes.

Since my late twenties, I'd suppose, I've had a little ritual surrounding this particular point on the calendar. I figure I can't be the only one.

I always try to make sure, on this first day of the month, that there's tasty food in the house, cash in the wallet, beer in the fridge, etc. before I go to bed. I run around and check things before I turn in, as if I were carefully leaving milk and cookies for Santa Claus.

I just want the day to be prepared, in case I wake up that next morning, Groundhog Day morning, over and over again. I figure it'll save me a ton of time, if it's anything like the movie.

Usually I tell myself that one of these years, I'll arrange to be within walking distance of Andie McDowell when I wake up on this date, which would also save me a ton of time if I wind up looping that day. The first thing I figured out about that movie was, once you figure out you get a free reset every time you wake up, hell yeah you taking chances on her. Why not be prepared? Be nearby?

This year, though, is the first one where I realized that these recurring rituals may have some value beyond an annual (or biennial) return to my hopes, my anticipations, and how they change over time.  That's valuable of itself, of course - I've always thought we should all do this.  We should block out time to note any irregularities in these threads of ourselves we spin, to understand the subtle shifts in their coloration, to marvel at how well they blend into our overall personal tapestries.

Those overarching themes of ours, though:  I notice lately that it matters to others that we keep them recurring.  Personal as these tapestries are, they have  importance beyond ourselves, and we should take some time to consider (for want of a better phrase) how they're hanging, as well as what they are.  I think of this as I think upon why that character called "Frank" continues to be near me - the colors of him fading but still distinct - not spun out yet, not thus far.

Frank may be a thread that I'm fated to spin again and again, as Bill Murray's character was fated to repeat.  I begin to wonder if the development of Bill's character was about him, or about Ms. McDowell's character.  She's always struck me as similar to women I (and Frank) have known, to be a girl who keeps goldfish, a girl in danger of finding that something precious of hers has fallen gasping to the ground. Perhaps Ms. McDowell needed a man who could, however improbably, rescue that preciousness, and drive along train tracks as needed to make that happen.  Certainly, on that second day of the second month, she deserved all the benefit she received.

Even without grinding through the decades of perspective shifts that Bill endured for her: that girl deserved it.

Frank, perhaps, is just as much an instrument of those he knows as that guy was for her: those girls deserve it.

Then I thought to myself - "wow, the way I'm feeling, it's like my attitudes are evolving as I repeat these same old things. I think the way I feel about Andie McDowell now puts me about ninety percent of the way through the movie."

I'm kinda scared to go to bed, as I have about six different levels of meta all tangled now.

I don't know if I'm before or after the part where I have to drive the train tracks tomorrow.