It’s that time again: Yeah, another year, another birthday. Time flies like arrows; fruit flies like bananas. Seems like just the other day I was trotting off to second grade. (Note the stylishly color-coordinated outfit and the briefcase; no stupid Snoopy backpack for me!) And yes, I did have bags under my eyes at age seven, so there! So maybe I haven’t aged that much.
Age is really a state of mind. I can choose:
- 48 (chronological)
- 336 (dog years)
- 14 (emotional age after watching almost anything on mainstream TV)
- 30 (in Hexadecimal)
Actually, 30 sounds pretty good, so I may stop there. My accountant’s bookkeeper professed to be shocked on hearing my real age, so I’ll take that as a compliment (unless, of course, she was implying that she had thought that I was far older). But I’ll count my blessings: good teeth, a firm jawline, no “Hadassah” arms (the dreaded flabby tricep), and no gray hair. Of course, there is a wonky heart, night blindness, arthritis, hot flashes, and plantar fasciitis to remind me of how ancient I really am.
But it’s my birthday, so I hereby proclaim it to be a joyous day for all. Have a triple-shot cappuccino. Hog the shower. Wear a bindi. Wink at a cute stranger. Go ahead. After all, we only live once.