In the Friendly Village, most of the time we just put a candle or two on a cake, pie, or martini and call it a birthday. It’s the safe thing to do, given we are all approaching a potential fire-hazard stage. This year, for some odd reason, Jude decided that the world needed to be reminded of my long run in the drama that is, “The Monkey Named June Bug”.I smelled it before I actually saw it, almonds, vanilla and butter cream, hovering about a perfect circle of fluffy white frosting and cheery yellow flowers. Then, there was a very brief moment of disassociation, because while I like numbers, these two, standing side by side, seemed to taunt; two waxy little brats with their tongues of fire, singing “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, naaah, you are fifty-eiiiiiight.” I shut them up as quickly as I could with a wish and a blow, but they still stood, silent, yet strangely defiant.
Now, fifty-eight isn’t a “Magic Marker” kind of birthday, you know the ones that indicate the end or beginning of an era (or error). No, those you know are coming and can prepare for by losing weight, coloring your hair, or purchasing something big and extravagant to further signify that you are embracing the zero. Nor is it a “Highlighter” birthday, those transparent little markers there to remind you that the next decade is “approaching” much like Birnam Woods. It is, however, a bit demanding in terms of accountability. It’s like an emergency preparedness check-list of sorts. You should feel like you have some control, because you have the list, but in reality, you are holding the list and thinking that being “prepared” is just too much work.
All of that aside, I am indeed happy to be who and where I am right now. I am putting my stubby 5 and 8 in a little box, filled with images of laughing friends, bits of ribbon, notes and cards, all to be opened and placed with great joy atop my eighty-fifth birthday cake!
Life is good!
