My 50th birthday is next week, Tuesday, December 7th. Yes, that’s right. I’m a Pearl Harbor Day baby. As Franklin Roosevelt said, “A day that will live in infamy.”
For years I told a meaningless joke, claiming that since it was Pearl Harbor Day, my Dad would get bombed (drunk) on that day every year. It never made much sense, but I always thought it was silly. Just a laugh.
Now I’m trying to find some way to laugh about turning 50. Sure, I know. It’s only a number. And 50 is the new 40. And on and on.
But what I can’t get my arms around is that, for the life of me, I don’t feel like I expected to feel when I hit the half century mark. I thought I would be more settled. I imagined I would be less worried and more confident. I believed that I would be more dull and less wondrous.
But actually none of these things have come to pass. I still look for the beauty and miracles that happen around me every day. I still worry about many things that never come to pass. I still feel like the best is yet to come.
And I guess that’s a good thing. I don’t want to be a stodgy old man at 50. I want to feel alive and sensitive and totally in the moment.
So I say Happy Birthday to me.
60 should be a breeze.