September 11, 2010
Yes, it’s that time again! I sail along through the year, feeling immortal (not immortal, maybe, but kind of ageless if I overlook certain physical cues) and then BAM! It’s time for another birthday! Father Time struts in like he owns the place, then hauls off and kicks my ass. I reel around the ring, howling in pathetic remembrance of my mortality, and he keeps on kicking till I’m down on the canvas, and the ref is counting up to the TKO call, and I just can’t drag myself to my feet. So here I am again, turning another year older, and instead of doing so with dignity, I take a header while Father Time dances around, pumping his gloves in the air, giving me more kicks on the way past. “You’re 45!” he crows. “You can’t fight it! I’ll always win!” And of course I know all that, I just can’t stand to be reminded of it. Why bother facing reality if I can just keep staggering around with a stupid grin on my face, blocking out the truth until I topple facedown over the ropes at the final bell? If only I could pop back up when ol’ F.T. least expects it, spit out a mouthful of teeth and blood, and go after him, really work him over. If only I could get a little of my own back, kick his ass for a change and show him the way down, the really hard way. “It’s your birthday, chump! How’s it feel? Not so funny when you’re the one kissing the canvas, is it?” Yeah, that would be friggin’ sweet, wouldn’t it? “Happy birthday, Father Time, you sadistic a-hole! Birthday this!“
