My father lived to almost 101; as for birthdays, he started counting at 39.  So for me today, November 10, I am by my dad’s count 39 years old for the 31st time.  It of course feels no different from yesterday, and we cannot presume to compare it to tomorrow.

When I was 64 I declared an end to birthday celebrations; 65 sounded old, and I wanted no part of it.  Nor did the idea match my disposition or ambitions.  I was given a rousing 64th party; a cover band sang the Beatle’s song asking “will you still love me when I’m 64,”  people dressed up as various Beatles or their lyrics, people came from long distances, and that is my last party.  All is good.

My assistant today gave me, for my birthday, a cup of Dunkin Donuts coffee, cream no sugar, and I know she wishes me well because it is a medium, not just a small.  My birthday dinner last night consisted solely of four scoops of ice cream topped with dark hot fudge; if arteries have not killed me yet, one more mega-sundae ain’t gonna do it.

I detest people who pontificate on birthdays about what they have learned, or about the secret of life.  I am happy to awake on the right side of the grass each morning.  When that doesn’t happen, I will try to send word, but we all should be prepared for the possibility that that blog post will not get published.  So save this blog post, just in case….