Well I’m off to Santa Barbara Friday afternoon where I will join the legendary and groovy Mrs tbogg for the weekend as we celebrate a couple of milestones.
First off, on Saturday I will have sucessfully completed the first year of my second half-century and my report card will show that I made it through the entire year without accidentally setting anything on fire, creating an international incident, fomenting revolution, shooting anyone in the face, or falling down the stairs and breaking a hip.
Not that I didn’t try, mind you.
I’ve heard people say that they’ve put more birthdays behind themselves then they have still to come, but when you pass fifty, well, you can pretty much bet the house on it, providing, of course, you don’t end up with your head kept alive in a large jar because you just never know what technological advance is lurking around the corner; all wires and electronic beeps and co-payments and icky fluids. I intend to be around for some time providing I don’t start listening to soft rock radio (“Phil Collins or Billy Joel: Who rocks harder?“) or developing a fondness for elastic-waist pants, in which case I have left strict instructions that I be smothered in my sleep, preferably with Shakira’s ass, if at all possible. Since I have given much, I would demand no less…
Moving onward and definitely upward, on Sunday the aforementioned adjective & adjective Mrs tbogg and I will celebrate our 23rd wedding anniversary; she now having been married more than half of her life to moi, lucky gal. And lucky me for having a wife who has indulged me, tolerated my moods and ignored my eccentricities (and mentions of Shakira’s ass) without complaint, remonstration or restraining order.
Everyone should be as lucky as I have been.