Today, Nov. 2, is my birthday.
I normally keep that under wraps. But if Hillary can do it …
I even dug up a photo of little me. I’m guessing second grade. Maybe third. Wish my mom were alive to verify.
What has prompted me to write about it is the incredulity of it. I am now 67 years old. How did this happen?
When I was 37 I wrote a column under the headline “Pausing at halftime to take stock of my life.” I based the “halftime” reference on a life expectancy of 74 years. Thirty years later I hope I was wrong about that.
I believe that was the first time I wrote about the rapidity of the passing of time. I suggested then that if you looked at ten year blocks of your life as ten dollar bills you’d get a feel for how fast it goes. At 37, for example, I had 43 dollars left, four tens and three ones.
Then I blinked my eyes and I am down to 13 bucks. In three years I will have my last ten spot in my pocket.
That kind of thinking can scare the bejeepers out of a person. So I don’t think about it.
Instead, I think about moments, not years. No matter how many years I have left … 10, 20, dare I say 30? … I do know this: it will go fast.
But moments? Somehow they seem to last longer. Somehow they seem to exist outside of time.
How many moments are there in a year, or 10? Millions? Billions?
And then there’s heaven, which I believe is an eternal moment.
Can’t say how that works, but I suspect it will render the 67 years of living I note today merely a drop in the bucket.