One more year has come and gone and I'm still counting. Birthdays, that is. Today marks the 61st in that line of numbers. And I really don't feel a day older than, say, 59.
As they say, whoever they are, as long as you're still vertical you can keep counting. As long as you're still on this side of the grass, you're still in the game. The idea is to stay in the game and keep counting until the numbers reach three digits. I have a long way to go yet.
Still, reaching beyond 60 is something of an accomplishment. My father only made it to 58, so I have him beat. And there are advantages to being considered a "senior." Like discounts at restaurants and department stores. Movies, if you go to the matinee, are half price. The only drawback to those discounts is that you have to admit to being old enough to qualify for them. That's not much of a problem for me, but for those who are constantly chasing the fountain of youth it can be a tough admission. And even though I have a youthful disposition and nary a wrinkle to mark my years, my gray hair and beard and the cane I use to help me get around are dead giveaways to my senior status. So if I wanted to lie and shave ten years off my age, I would have to shave off my beard, dye what's left of my hair, and conquer PD so I could leave the cane at home and that's too much trouble to go to just to fudge a number.
Besides, I like to think that one more year in the count also enhances my status as a wizened and learned mentor and sage to the younger generations. But for whatever reason, they don't seem to be lining up at my door seeking my wise counsel. One of these days they will wake up and realize all the wisdom they are missing by not paying better attention to me.
In the meantime, let 'em eat cake. Birthday cake, that is. I'm willing to share that, too. Happy Birthday to me.