Tick, tock, goes the clock…
I didn’t turn forty-eight until today, but I’ve been thinking of myself as that age for most of this year. As my birthday approached, I began dwelling on the number fifty. It loomed on the horizon, its grey, loathsome bulk blotting out the sun.
Maybe it was a defense mechanism, maybe a moment of clarity, but I then began to consider that perhaps turning fifty in the not-too-distant future won’t be such a horrible thing. After all, Vicky will be fifty this December, and she’s looking good.
So maybe it will be acceptable to be in my fifties come 2014. At least until I spot the even larger, more abhorrent mass of the sixties in the not-far-enough distance.
Jerry Van Dyke, my bête noire, turns 81 today. Curse his unfunny hide.