I’m not a fan of Christmas, New Year’s, or my birthday. Since childhood, I’ve dreaded the idea of a planned celebration: now it’s supposed to be fun, cozy, or whatever. Joy on command isn’t my strength, and I don’t feel any anticipation. I get lots of well-meant congratulations and gifts that I often don’t know what to do with. And there’s the forced feeling of giving cheerful responses to all the congratulations.

What I do enjoy is spontaneously or casually meeting up with my former schoolmates, friends, or acquaintances – whether in twos, threes, or a larger group – for a fun, casual evening or weekend without any agenda or expectations.

And here we go again. It’s my birthday. Once again, in January, like every year. My friends message me, which genuinely makes me happy because their wishes are authentic and accompanied by sincere offers to go hiking, to the movies, the theater, or an exhibition. They know me and understand that material gifts rarely make me happy. My kids reach out, my parents and other relatives write. A few long-standing business partners get in touch. Then there are calls and emails triggered by calendar reminders from my insurance, car garage, and other service providers. The SBB gives me a voucher for a drink, Ticketcorner offers me a 5 CHF discount. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but honestly, I don’t need AI programmed to remember my birthday. That’s not fun.

I visited my mom recently to help her adjust her hearing aids. Now I’m flying back home on my birthday. I settle into my seat – and since I bought a super cheap ticket, I wasn’t surprised to be seated in the last row, just like on the outbound flight. Paying extra to sit 15 rows forward isn’t worth it to me. I can read and think anywhere. I sit down, open my laptop, and start working. Then the flight attendant comes up to me and asks if I’m Ms. Merz. Yes, I am. She congratulates me and hands me a bar of chocolate. And that got me. The unexpected touched me emotionally. Well done, Swiss – I truly appreciated this gesture.

By the way, this year, for the first time in a while, I have a material wish: I’d like to buy a pool table. That’s quite an ambitious wish, though. A pool table is big and heavy. There’s no space for it in my apartment. But at the vacation house, it might be possible to add onto the room above the old stable and set it up there. That’s my birthday wish and likely a project for the next three years. I need an architect who specializes in old buildings. The walls are made of stone; the house was built in 1906, and the stables likely over 100 years earlier. I need a project manager and a building permit. The project will undoubtedly be challenging because adding a floor will probably require a completely new roof. As always, my budget is limited, and everything needs to fit within it.

Why pool? During my vacation, I played almost every day for the first time in ages. I’m not good at it. I’ve always lacked three-dimensional vision, and geometry was my nemesis in school. When I took an intelligence test at 14 (to help choose a career), I scored zero points in spatial visualization. They had me retake that part of the test because they suspected something had gone wrong. The result was the same: zero points. There are just things I cannot do. Spatial visualization is a huge advantage in pool. Parallel parking, for instance, took me years to master. Today, I can do it easily and without the sweaty stress of my first 20 years as a driver. I remember colleagues and instructors who promised to teach me – none of them succeeded. I had to figure out how to compensate for my lack of ability.

Pool is similar. I can’t intuitively predict what happens when one ball strikes another, but I’ve learned to analyze it. Outsmarting my weaknesses gives me immense joy. I need the pool table to improve, which requires the room addition, which requires a permit that an architect and project manager should handle. If you know any great architects or project managers, that would be a wonderful birthday gift.

It’s my birthday again. Swiss, thanks for the chocolate.