Yesterday was my wife's birthday. Ever since we met in 1968, we'd go out for dinner and a romantic evening to celebrate.
Last night we went out for dinner...along with her mother, her uncle, her sister, and two of her brothers.
When we got home, she changed into her house clothes and slumped on the sofa to watch a few minutes of TV before going off to sleep.
I checked out APS, THR, and TFL for a few minutes, then headed off to bed as well.
I laid awake, though, thinking about how much has changed. We've both changed very much physically (me to the point that people who knew me years back don't even recognize me). Neither of us is able to do the "party all night" gigs anymore. And birthdays are no longer something to be celebrated; rather, they've become a reminder of the past, and the shrinking number of years left to go.
While I'll confess that this post is in part melancholy, it's also one of overdue naive surprise: I wasn't expecting to be old. Years back, when I looked at someone in his 50's or 60's, it was as though I thought he was just born that way, with the bulging middle and the shiney spot on the top of his head.
That thought was still with me when I awoke earlier than usual this morning. Rather than roll over and go back to sleep, I said, "hey, pal. If you're concerned about the number of days you have left, you'd better get up and make the best of this one."
If it were possible, I'd give everything I have to trade ages with the likes of Fistful or Winston Smith. Since that's not possible, I can only write posts like this that will, I hope, encourage them to take full advantage of their youth.
Maybe I should write a book, and steal a little bit from writer Joe Galloway: "We Were Party Animals Once...And Young."