It Really Is Just a Number

The psychological perspective of birthdays changes significantly with the passage of time.

I remember as a kid that Mom always tried to make my birthdays as special as possible within the limits of a near poverty income level. I always got to pick the menu for my birthday supper. I didn't get to improvise, but I was allowed to choose from our normal fare of fried baloney, fried spam, fried salt pork (or whatever). This was complimented by our daily "beans and taters" (and I could choose how the taters were fixed as long as it was fried or mashed)!

I feel sure I received a wrapped "gift", but I truly do not remember? The real treat was that Mom would bake a cake (I always chose chocolate), smear icing on it about an inch thick, buy a sugar based "Happy Birthday" to put on top, and finish it out with the appropriated number of candles. Birthday party?? As far as anyone outside my immediate family attending, never happened, but hey, it was good.

All great memories.

I don't remember many teen years birthdays, except 16. I somehow got it in my head that my 16th year of life was going to be magically special in unknown ways? Big disappointment. Not that it was a bad year in my life, it was just that not much changed and I didn't feel any different?

I remember year 18 because I had to register for the military draft (remember Viet Nam) and I graduated high school.

Birthday 20 was celebrated by receiving on that day a telegram from DPS confirming my appointment to attend Highway Patrol school in Austin.

21 was legal drinking age, but not a big deal from that perspective. The irony was that I could, after a year as a Trooper, finally buy my own pistol ammunition!

30 kinda got my attention for a few minutes, but I thought, "What the Hell, I'm only as old as I feel and I feel great"!

40 and 50 was the same reaction: no big deal, just a number, and it felt great to be alive and productive.

TOMORROW I TURN 58.

There are a few more aches, pains and twinges now than I can remember from the past. Plus, more each day I feel I am turning into my Dad. I start thinking about going to bed around dark. I wake up about 2:30 each morning thinking about getting up and starting the day (wishing my back, hips, whatever would stop complaining?).

My productive working career days are waning. Next month I will have been a police officer for 38 consecutive years. I started as a street cop working where the rubber meets the road and I am ending my career the same way by working daily on cases involving armed robberies, sexual assaults, or whatever the day brings (and I am loving every minute of it).

I sincerely look forward to what ever number of future birthdays may remain (please Lord let me draw some of that social security "mail box" money that Dad used to brag about). I love my Lord and Savior, I love my family, and I love life and all it has to offer.

Happy Birthday to me!