I’m celebrating a 73rd birthday today, low key, and I wish I could say that I felt like a teenager. I do, only when I’m sitting down like this.  The sciatica villain took it easy on my leg this morning, so I didn’t have to hobble my way into the chair. It seems to be just a matter of sitting on a firmer chair in the evening, not the couch, and not sleeping on my left side. We’ll have Big Mike’s Pizza tonight and watch some more episodes of Reacher, no parties or exotic excursions this year. We did just get back from a 4,000-mile road trip that took me to my 50th state, Maine. 

My wife is substituting today, so dog duty falls to me. I’ll load Tally and Fosse into the golf cart, take them a few blocks to the park, and let them romp with their friends for a half-hour or more. Then, I’ll go to my weekly chair yoga class and work out at the fitness center. I also have a couple landscaping projects to do this afternoon, so a dip in the pool will be necessary to get the grime off. I’m also expecting a couple birthday calls and might not have time for a nap.

I’m home, here in Venice, until probably February when we go to the Keys for a few days. We’ll take the high-speed ferry out of Ft. Myers. My wife seems content with doing a solo flight out to Oakland to visit her daughter, and hosting some of her high school classmates for a week in March. While they take over the house, I will have to take refuge at my son’s house. Nothing else is yet planned, although there’s talk of doing another long drive up through Wisconsin and into the Dakotas to complete her fifty-state quest. The rest of the unexplored world is on hold. 

For me, it’s just another birthday, something I’ve taken for granted every year. However, here’s to all of those I’ve known in life that weren’t as fortunate to live as long as me. I see you in my dreams and hope there is yet a future together. It’s been a remarkable 73-years, but I won’t wish for 73 more.