(With apologies to DC Comics.)

Nine hours ago, I turned 52 years old. It seems strange, for two reasons:

1. It’s my older brothers who should be 52. That seems about right. Even though each of them is now in his 60s.
2. I know it’s a cliche, but… I don’t feel 52. Part of me feels 32 — old enough to be responsible, but young enough not to outrageous. And another part of me feels 14 — the pre-Literature-degree part who still prefers apocalypse novels, zombie movies and comic books. (The part that feels 52 is my right leg — there is something going on there that still hasn’t been diagnosed properly.)

Want a sure reminder that it’s your birthday? Waking up to 90 or so “Happy Birthday” messages on Facebook will do it. One longtime friend posted, “…wondering… what the famous Mr. W. does on his birthday….” To which I responded, “Curses the hotel in-room coffee setup that has ONLY DECAF!”

I also got a Facebook birthday message from Jim Brochu. It read, “Happy Birthday, Didi.” After a moment of wondering if he was referencing Waiting for Godot, I replied, “Thanks, Sammy.” Jim then posted in reply, “That was meant for Did (sic) Conn. But Happy Birthday to you too.” Realizing that he meant Didi Conn, I replied, “You’re oh for two, Jim.” Then he just deleted it all. I’m left wondering if this will be the pre-eminent birthday memory I’ll carry forward for this year.

Plans for the rest of my day? Hit the jacuzzi on the second floor as soon as I’ve finished posting this. Get on with the remaining business of the day here in beautiful Oakland, California, then fly home. It’s the 52nd anniversary of my birth, and in some regard, that’s achievement enough:  I’m still here.

This entry was posted on Sunday, July 13th, 2014 at 8:20 am and is filed under Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.