My birthday’s tommorow. Why, I can remember being born just like it was 18,615 days ago. While my fellow newborns were lying all about me, mewing and scrinching up their little baby fists, I was busy scheming revenge on the clown in the surgical mask who, when apparently no one else was looking, got his sadistic jollies off by holding me upside down and spanking me.
Now it’s 51 years later, and that doctor’s probably dead now. So vengeance is mine!
No, but seriously. Before too very long, I’ll be dead. That’s what birthday’s are all about: reminding you that you’re on a schedule.
I can’t believe I’ve been alive 51 years. It seems like only 50, tops. They say the older you get, the faster time seems to go by. But that’s just because you start forgetting so much that half the time you’re, like, “What? It’s Friday already? What year is this?” Plus, thinking time’s gone by super fast gives you an excellent excuse for not getting stuff done. Just the other day I told my wife, “Honey, I’d like to have fixed our front door knob, but time’s just gone by so fast!” And she gave me that loving look that always tells me that, for her, time is going by at a rate that’s agonizing slow. But that’s her problem.
We’re going to see “Working,” a play based on the book by the same name, by Studs Terkel. I wish my mother had named me Studs. Anyway, Stud’s book—and now the play—is all about people who have jobs. I suspect this is my wife’s way of indicating I should get a job. Ha! It’s going to take a lot more than a rousing musical to rouse me off this couch.
Hey! Cat just called, to tell me she’s taking off the rest of the day today to spend it with me!
See, now that’s a great birthday present!
So now I should at least go brush my teeth.
And she thinks I don’t work.