Counting Down
Today is my birthday. I know, yea me. One more year has passed.
Your kind wishes about my fading vitality are very much appreciated.
The idea of mortality won’t be breached today. It’s not that I don’t occasionally think about it, it’s just that, why bother do so? The inevitable is something we can’t escape and time is short. I’ve got better things to do.
I’d rather leave philisophical wrestling matches to things that amuse me. Today, I’m 71. I may not look it – thank you very much – but I am. I have a goal of 100 and I’m working my way back from there. Countdowns seem like a much more cheery subject than getting older. They bring to mind images of the space shuttle or Wile E. with some TNT – subjects that are much more appealing than say Metamucil and Depends undergarments.
Counting up is fraught with uncertainty. When do you stop? Counting down feels natural. It’s sort of like playing 99 bottles of beer on the wall except that a gravestone waits at the end of the long, song-filled journey home. And I’m not starting at 99.
