Saturday, May 31, 2014


Reggie Jackson's number on the Yankees.

Five years into the "forever 39" phase of my life.

The age my mom was when I got engaged and the age I am now.

In two years, I'll be the same age my father was when a massive heart attack cut short his life and the same age my grandmother was when I was born.

I'm thinking about those people who are gone.

I'm thinking about what birthdays even mean.

This is not a significant number, but on the other hand, birthdays seem to gain significance as I get older.

I'm thinking about Meg Ryan in "When Harry Met Sally", crying about turning forty and Billy Crystal is incredulous because she won't be forty for eight years.  I am the Meg Ryan in this scenario.

I am thinking about ice cream trucks; the miracle I thought they were when I was seven and the smelly, speeding, overpriced nuisance I think they are now.

I am thinking about how long the summer seemed when I was a kid, even as a teenager who slept away beautiful, fragrant days and how short it seems, now.

I am missing the days of homemade cards written in just-learned letters by chubby boy hands.

I am hearing that line from a Billy Joel song; a line he probably wrote on a birthday of his own:  "The good old days weren't always good; tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems".

It's comforting, in a way.

Forty four.

It's not so bad.


  1. I got knocked up when I was 44. So, there's that.

    And I didn't realize your dad died young from a heart attack. Mind did too - 15 years ago. He was 51.

    Happy birthday again, my friend.

  2. Thanks, Rachel and Lisa! Lots of emotions. Today was a better day. xoxo