Another birthday

Well today is my birthday; I am fifty-five. I know, I don’t feel it (not in the least).

Twenty-five was a big year: a quarter of a century. Most younger people freak-out about turning thirty. For me, twenty-five was the magic number; the idea of turning twenty-five freaked me out.

At fifty-five, I find I am nonchalant about getting older. Perhaps, it is because of the way I feel. I feel younger even though I realize that I am more than the half way point of my life, and I am just starting to really live. My dad told me once that I would be fifty before I found myself (even my family doesn’t know this, he said it before he died).

Maybe the reason why is because I was born before my time (prematurely) that it took so long. I don’t know.

All I know is that I have a good life: I have a loving partner, a good family and friends who love me. What more can a person ask?

Anyway, it is just an age; it is just another number, it is just another year. Other than the time I was turning twenty-five, I never got hung up on age. My friend Betty was the same; she viewed aging as I do. That one must view one’s birthday is just another year.
—Robert Confiant 7 March 2017 (mod 25 March 2018)

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