Well, here it is. Today I arrive at both forty years and forty posts on my life thus far. This is where I groan and say “I’m old” and shake my head, wondering how so many years could have got away from me. On the other hand, I’m pretty happy with my life right now so I don’t have many regrets (too few to mention, as Frank sang it). Besides, now that I’m here, forty doesn’t feel that old. I still enjoy roller skating and playing on the Wii and listen to rock and roll and read children’s books, and I’m a believer that you are only as old as you behave.
You’ve read about the many places I’ve lived, my jobs and my hobbies. This last post is about the birthday itself. Like a lot of people, I’ve looked at my birthday and searched for signs of personal destiny. I share a birthday with such luminaries as George Eliot, Charles de Gaulle, Wiley Post, Jamie Lee Curtis, and Steven Van Zandt. I feel destined to write weighty novels, become president of France, fly airplanes, star in horror movies, and hang out with Bruce Springsteen and Tony Soprano. I could do a lot worse.
Unfortunately, my birthday is best known as the day John F. Kennedy died. “Ooh, assassination day,” some people will say when they learn the date of my birth. On that dark day in 1963 writers Aldous Huxley and C.S. Lewis also left this mortal coil.
But my favorite factoid about November 22 is actually from the year I was born, 1968. It’s the day The Beatles released The White Album, which is considered by many (including me) to be one of the best rock and roll albums of all time. I’m proud we came out on the same day, and can enjoy these lyrics in a special, knowing way:
You say it’s your birthday, it’s my birthday too, yeah.