I always thought that birthdays were important until, say, age 21. After that, achieving a decade might be worth a party. I am just a little embarrassed when non-family members know it is my birthday, except for the free car wash at Scrub-a-Dub.
Recently it became unavoidable for me to acknowledge that it was my 68th birthday. I find this pretty remarkable. I never thought I would get this old. More startling is the actuaries projection that a white male in the US who lives to be 68 has an average of 14.9 years of life left.
The realization that I might exist another 15 or so years is troubling. Do I have enough money? What will I do? Where will I live? Will I remain upright? Will I develop a hump?
Friends dutifully wish me a happy birthday; I smile and say thank you, but really I would just as soon have it pass un-noticed by the rest of you, unless of course you were thinking of sending me some single malt scotch.
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