Nobody wants to do those crazy things we used to do before.
Nobody left to run with anymore.
(“No One to Run With” by Dickie Betts & Joe Prestia)
Today is my eleventy-first birthday!
Where’s our birthday present, my precious?
Ok, I am not really as old as Bilbo, but it is my birthday nonetheless. No. 49. Geez. This is uncharted territory. Stevie Nicks never sang about the edge of 50. That said, my number by itself tells you very little. You need other people’s numbers to go with it. Our oldest child celebrated a landmark birthday in June. Before the alarm went off that morning, I shook Mrs. L. up out of her slumber and in a panic asked, “Do. You. Realize. That today. Our children. ... OUR CHILDREN. … Are 30. And 21?” She mumbled something about me being an old man and told me to go back to sleep. Our oldest grandchild turns 13 in less than two months. Our youngest grandchild turned 7 back in March. As for Mrs. L … well, let’s just say that I am married to a younger woman. These are not complaints mind you. Just observations. After all, Steve ver. 49.0 is alive and well despite the best efforts of Steve vers. 15.5, 16.0 and 17.9. And, ver. 49.0 is still a whole lot younger than ver. 9.0 thought he would be. Considering everything, I plan to do this again the same time next year. As my wise friend reminds me, we want to have as many birthdays as possible; it beats the alternative.
Hahaha! I like that. Version 49.0. I think I will call you that.
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