Fifty-five years before I was born was 1902, which means in the space of my life counting backwards, we got two world wars, the Depression, the invention of television and radio, air travel, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Counting forward, we’ve seen one after another failed instance of American imperialism, the iPod, hang-gliders, and reality TV. What this means I’m not sure, but if the trend continues, the next five and half decades may need a better press agent come the year 2067.
All things considered, I don’t mind particularly having reached this advanced age; as the saying goes, it beats the alternative—although, of course, had that alternative come to pass, I’d be in no position to make such a judgment.
In any case, I’m glad to be alive, even if I do have liver spots on the backs of my hands, although, fortunately, I’m getting farsighted enough to have trouble seeing them. Nature works well that way, doesn’t she?
I made sure to ride my bike both ways to school and back, so even though I didn’t manage as many miles as years I’ve lived, I did succeed in pedaling nearly 60 million kilometers. Take that all you metrically-challenged American automobile commuters!
I’ve still got all my teeth and most of my hair—as well as a few additional sprouts in my eyebrow and ear areas—so no complaints there.
I’m probably not as spry as I once was, but that’s not such a big deal since what the hell does “spry” mean, anyway?
Of course, the best part of all is that with each passing day, I get closer to being that guy in his undershirt on the porch yelling at you kids to get the hell offa my lawn.