So, I had a big birthday back in March. Turned 107. Yep, the big 1-0…7. Doesn’t have much of a ring to it, does it?
I don’t really understand the excitement that surrounds birthdays. Could be ’cause I’m 107, and I don’t understand much of anything these days. But I think there’s more to it than that.
What did I really do to deserve recognition on this day? My mom did all the real work. Let’s compare our experiences:
- she went through labor
- I pretty just much took a ride on a waterslide
Maybe on sons’ birthdays we should give cake and presents to moms. That should make up for the pain of labor, right?
I am thankful, however, that I’ve made it this far in life. My story is checkered, sordid, sundry, and other adjectives that mean questionable or sketchy.
I grew up on the tough streets of Laverock, Pennsylania, which is a suburb of Philadelphia. My days consisted of playing with my two brothers in the backyard or on our tennis court. It wasn’t one of those nice, country club tennis courts, though. It had cracks and stuff.
My education pretty much consisted of what I picked up from my friends…and the teachers at the private school I attended. It’s not like it was a boarding school. Just a day school, and no one from my class got into Harvard, so it wasn’t that great.
Sure, I went to college. But my school, Duke University just fell out of the US News & World Report’s Top 5, so what does it really mean? Besides that, a lot of street folks went to Duke. Well, their parents were from the street. Actually, they worked on Wall Street, but it’s all the same. A street’s a street, right?
Anyways, I guess, despite all my trials and tribulations, I should be happy that I’ve had 107 great years here on planet Earth. I’m just saying I don’t need a day with cake and presents to honor my birth.
Just acknowledging my existence on a daily basis by saying hello or waving or blinking is enough for me.
Oh, and tapioca. I’d love some tapioca…