Happy Birthday…

to me. It seems like I’ve been celebrating for weeks. Certainly for the last 4 days. So today is a tad anti-climatic. 65 years ago at 7:25 pm I managed to get myself born, despite some people’s objections, at The Bronx Central Maternity Hospital in New York City.

I have no idea what it means to be 65, other than I get to ride the bus and subway for free. (I think that is so cool.) I don’t know what I am supposed to be, or do. I don’t know what I’m supposed to look like or how I’m supposed to behave. Yet I have heard that 65 is some sort of transitional birthday, like 21 or 16 or…oh, pick a number any number – every year you survive is a transitional birthday.

I don’t recall thinking about getting older…and older …and older when I was young. Just never occurred to me. I never looked “my age” and people tell me I don’t look it now – my answer was always this is what 24 or 37 or 42 or 57 or 65 looks like. I felt insulted, then and now, by that kind of comment. I look like what I look like, and I am as old as I am old, and what’s it to ya anyway?

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