The more I think about being born in February, I'm convinced my mother planned it that way, neatly nestled in the vast dead period between football season and the next football season. I was a month early, but still it was post-Super Bowl. I'm sure her thinking was, "OK, football's over, The Waltons is a rerun this week, let's go ahead and get this over with."
Sometime last week, the calendar reminded me I had clicked off another year. Forty-two. Which doesn't seem all that significant until you learn that is exactly one third of the way to my goal of one hundred twenty-six.
You think Betty White is a riot in her nineties? Just wait until Bone in his hundred-aughts, and hundred-teens. Hilarity shall ensue.
This also marked the year I officially turned into my dad with regards to gift requests. I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted/needed.
Save for t-shirts.
And socks. (I refuse to ask my mother to buy me underwear.)
No one makes a big deal about your age when you're my age. I mean, I'm already old enough to run for President. I can't get my AARP membership for eight more years (though judging by the number of mail-outs I have been receiving for awhile now, their advance recruitment efforts are unequaled).
Turning forty-two, it isn't like anyone says, "Ooo, you're twice the legal drinking age! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
But it's not bad.
My birthday morning started with a call from Nephew Bone, who serenaded me with "Happy Birthday." Minutes later, I played my highest-scoring word ever in Words With Friends (not against Nephew Bone). The word ("stripier") wasn't all that impressive, but the 149 points was decent. I basked in the afterglow of that achievement clean through lunch. (Some would suggest I'm still basking.)
With grave apologies to the Hemingway estate, I suppose you could say the remainder of my birthday was a moveable feast.
Birthday night was dinner out with my dad and step-mom at a Mexican restaurant. I had the shrimp burrito. Then Friday night, we drove up to Nashville to meet friends at Famous Dave's. Ribs, catfish, collard greens, and slaw. Things wound down with Sunday dinner at mom's, or as I like to call it, Fat Sunday. There were pork chops, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, cucumber salad, and more.
Desserts sampled at one point or other during the four-day Carnival de Cholesterol included chocolate cake, apple cobbler, pineapple upside down cake, and a glazed creme-filled doughnut from Krispy Kreme. (Hey, it's right by the Famous Dave's! I was raised that when you're that close to a Krispy Kreme, it's impolite and possibly even sinful not to go.)
For Lent, I'm giving up my aversion to angioplasty. Evidently.
I'm sure everyone says the same thing, but I don't feel forty-two. I feel twenty-five. Granted, a twenty-five-year-old who struggles to stay up past 10 p.m. most nights. But also one who has grown to appreciate the value of life's simpler pleasures, like long naps, sunsets, liquid Maalox.
And new socks.
Here's to the next eighty-four years.
"The truth about a mirror / Is that a damned old mirror / Don't really tell the whole truth / It don't show what's deep inside / Or read between the lines / And it's really no reflection of my youth..."
Sometime last week, the calendar reminded me I had clicked off another year. Forty-two. Which doesn't seem all that significant until you learn that is exactly one third of the way to my goal of one hundred twenty-six.
You think Betty White is a riot in her nineties? Just wait until Bone in his hundred-aughts, and hundred-teens. Hilarity shall ensue.
This also marked the year I officially turned into my dad with regards to gift requests. I couldn't think of a single thing I wanted/needed.
Save for t-shirts.
And socks. (I refuse to ask my mother to buy me underwear.)
No one makes a big deal about your age when you're my age. I mean, I'm already old enough to run for President. I can't get my AARP membership for eight more years (though judging by the number of mail-outs I have been receiving for awhile now, their advance recruitment efforts are unequaled).
Turning forty-two, it isn't like anyone says, "Ooo, you're twice the legal drinking age! Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
But it's not bad.
My birthday morning started with a call from Nephew Bone, who serenaded me with "Happy Birthday." Minutes later, I played my highest-scoring word ever in Words With Friends (not against Nephew Bone). The word ("stripier") wasn't all that impressive, but the 149 points was decent. I basked in the afterglow of that achievement clean through lunch. (Some would suggest I'm still basking.)
With grave apologies to the Hemingway estate, I suppose you could say the remainder of my birthday was a moveable feast.
Birthday night was dinner out with my dad and step-mom at a Mexican restaurant. I had the shrimp burrito. Then Friday night, we drove up to Nashville to meet friends at Famous Dave's. Ribs, catfish, collard greens, and slaw. Things wound down with Sunday dinner at mom's, or as I like to call it, Fat Sunday. There were pork chops, fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, cucumber salad, and more.
Desserts sampled at one point or other during the four-day Carnival de Cholesterol included chocolate cake, apple cobbler, pineapple upside down cake, and a glazed creme-filled doughnut from Krispy Kreme. (Hey, it's right by the Famous Dave's! I was raised that when you're that close to a Krispy Kreme, it's impolite and possibly even sinful not to go.)
For Lent, I'm giving up my aversion to angioplasty. Evidently.
I'm sure everyone says the same thing, but I don't feel forty-two. I feel twenty-five. Granted, a twenty-five-year-old who struggles to stay up past 10 p.m. most nights. But also one who has grown to appreciate the value of life's simpler pleasures, like long naps, sunsets, liquid Maalox.
And new socks.
Here's to the next eighty-four years.
"The truth about a mirror / Is that a damned old mirror / Don't really tell the whole truth / It don't show what's deep inside / Or read between the lines / And it's really no reflection of my youth..."
