Happy birthday to… me! The big 48. I’m officially contiguous, even as there are secession problems.
There are a whole slew, if not a Seattle, of other birthdays today, which I’d be remiss not to mention while I am here, even though I have stopped the regular announcements.
First and foremost, my mother, which makes her 74. Which with modern health and life expectancies – the same ones that make 65 an absurd and nationally bankrupting retirement age – would be famously sung by the Beatles if they were happening now. Or perhaps even 84, my age if I were dyslexic. Difference being divides by nine. Obscure accounting humor, anyone?
There’s Mickey, of the now defunct Mickey’s Musings blog.
There’s Bogie, who has read me from the early days, and whom I have actually met in person.
There’s Peter Davidson, a favorite eclectic read who up and disappeared, though the blog remains, suspended in time. I’d still like to know what happened, and see him come back or what he’s posting now if he’s elsewhere.
Imelda Bettinger is a name I picked up along the way to add to the list, 35 this year as Deb will be. Darn kids! (I believe age difference between us was less a factor than could have been, but more of one than I’d expected.)
Finally, Sheila Scarborough is another of us cool 1961 babies. Go us!