At some point in my teenaged years (and, yes, I can remember back that far) I never expected to reach age 30. All of the young men in my father’s side of my family — including my dad — died before 30 so it seemed predetermined that I would buy the farm before starting my third decade.
Had a hell of a party on Dec. 17, 1977 — my 30th birthday. They still talk about it in Alton, Illinois. From what I can remember of it, the event set new records of debauchery that may never be broken.
The celebration for 40 seemed anti-climatic. By 50, birthdays seemed old hat (or old age at least). Even 60 brought little trauma.
But as age 63 approached this week, it came with some apprehension since the birthday was just tw0 days after back surgery that — depending on the outcome — could have a profound effect on the rest of the life.
As it turned out, the surgery went well and age 63 arrived this morning with little drama (except, perhaps, for an insistent dogs who — for reasons known only to the dog gods — insisted in going out into the snow to turn parts of the white stuff yellow).
Lord. Sixty-three. I now qualify for all senior citizens discount programs. My legs and back show a willingness to keep working for a while longer. I should be back on my motorcycle by March or April (If I can just find where Amy hid the keys).
More later but I’ve decided t kill the dog because it’s too damn cold to take him outside and any animal that wants to pee outside in these temperatures doesn’t deserve to live anyway.