Wake to realize that, against all odds in your crazy house, your wife has somehow arranged for you to sleep in until 10AM, like you’re some kind of a drug addicted 1980s rock star. Walk downstairs tentatively, unsure if maybe the zombie apocalypse has happened. Find the house open to let in the sixty-four degree fresh air on a stunningly gorgeous day. See your children diligently cleaning the house as if they’re the inexplicably happy street urchins who work for Fagin. Make breakfast in peace and find yourself unable to imagine a better start to your 42nd year . . . or at least unable to imagine a better start that doesn’t involve you piloting the Millennium Falcon.