Today's my fifty-seventh birthday. I’m 684 months old, or 2975
weeks or 20805 days or 499320 hours. Some of it went by quickly; some not so much. As Einstein explained, “Put
your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a
pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.” Fifty-seven is only
middle aged if you intend to live to 114; something that sounded better when I
was seventeen than it does now. When I was seventeen I didn’t know what arthritic
knuckles are like first thing in the morning. Or what it’s like to deal with
movie goer’s knee even when you’re not at the cinema. Or that I’d someday find
myself stashing reading glasses all over the house, because without them
everything looks like decorative filigree. Don't misunderstand: I enjoy my life. I'm just not sure I'd volunteer for another 57 years.
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