Today is my birthday. I made it to age 66. It's not a major accomplishment like winning a Nobel or Pulitzer. Lots of people have done it -- but lots of people have not. I'm glad I did. Life is still good, or at least good enough.
I figure I have about 22 more birthdays to go. That's a sobering thought.
There are people alive now who did not have electric lights in their homes when they were kids, but now have iPads. I was one of the first kids in daBronx to have a television, and my current house is filled with the latest electronics. A flying car was at the New York Auto Show last week. I doubt that I'll ever own one, but I lived to see one. I wonder what I won't live long enough to see -- other than world peace, of course. Will I miss something important?
Today is not one of those milestone birthdays, like 10, 13, 18, 21, 35, 60 or 65. But, like Number One, it's one of the few ages that correspond to a famous American highway.
There was even a TV show named after the famous Route 66. People sang, "Get your kicks on Route Sixty-Six." Even the Stones sang it. The Beatles sang, "When I'm 64." Been there. Done that.
66 is two thirds of 666 -- the mark of the beast, the sign of the devil. That probably means more to Rick Santorum than it does to me.
There is one really good thing about being 66. If I can hang on for about 32 more days, and if the Department of the Treasury can also survive, I'll start receiving Social Security payments. That's even better than being old enough to run for president.
I feel like I've been in a casino, putting coins in a slot machine for 50 years, and finally, next month, KA-CHING, KA-CHING, KA-CHING!
Thanks to everyone who remembered my birthday. Please forgive me if I don't remember yours. I'm getting old.