Thursday, November 21, 2013
Today is my birthday.
Seriously, the 20th finally fell on a Wednesday.
I’m 56 years old.
I’m a grandfather, which is awesome.
I am officially a Senior Citizen, but unbeknownst to me, that happened last year when I hit the Double Nickel.
Growing up, I marked the significant birthdays, my 10th, when I made a killing off the Tooth Fairy; when I turned 13, I shaved for the first time and took my first trip to the E.R.; 18 because I was of age; 21 because I could walk into an establishment and order an adult beverage.
When I turned 25, I got married, on my birthday no less. My car insurance rates dropped like a big rock in a deep pond.
When I turned 30, I had two kids and found my first gray hair.
Turning 35 reminded me I couldn’t do those things I was able to do at 18 and my body showed me in the most inglorious ways possible. But still I tried.
When I turned 40, I gave up trying and my hair had turned mostly white.
I was also divorced.
At age 45, I embarked on my journey into the world of curmudgeonism. My hair was completely white, and I was asked to play Santa Claus for the company Christmas party because I wouldn’t need the fake beard. My Santa Claus suit concerns were dismissed with, “The tag says one size fits all,” when in reality – and yes, I did try on the Santa suit – one size fit everybody EXCEPT me.
“Merry Christmas and go away kid, you bother me.”
And no, I did not pass the Santa Claus audition, which was just as well. The Santa suit fit like O.J’s glove.
When I turned 50, I decided I was tired of my life and needed a change, so I moved from the mountains to the beach and became the Grand Pooh-Bah of the Curmudgeons Lodge.
Which brings us to 55, last year, and now, 56.
I decided, at 55, I needed some goals.
So I made a goal to finally publish one of those novels I’d been writing and hiding in the closet for the past 30 years. I published three, Locked Hearts, the Lunch Box, and today, my third, Broken.
My goal for 2014 is to score a book deal.
The process of soliciting a book manuscript for publication gunks up my brain like a peanut-butter sandwich stuffed in the VCR – heck, even that metaphor is antiquated. I bet there are many of you out there that don’t remember VCRs.
How about eight-track players?
That’s really showing my age.
I got to thinking about the years gone by and all the things I’d done for a living, especially the various intersecting career choices.
Since graduating high school I have been: A professional baseball player, college baseball coach, high school baseball coach, middle school basketball and soccer coach, art teacher (ask me to draw my 60-second bunny rabbit), newspaper reporter and editor, free lance writer, radio talk show host, TV producer (very, very small time), sports play-by-play announcer, disc jockey (the Old School kind), ordained minister, and now, published author.
My bio with the paper says I’m a “Jack of All Trades.” I’ve done it all, people tell me.
My punch line to this is, I’ve either done it all or I have trouble holding down a job.
So let’s blow out some candles and call 911.
There is probably a very big fire here and I just hyperventilated and am unconscious.
The Berkeley Independent is pleased to offer readers the enhanced ability to comment on stories. We expect our readers to engage in lively, yet civil discourse. We do not edit user submitted statements and we cannot promise that readers will not occasionally find offensive or inaccurate comments posted in the comments area. Responsibility for the statements posted lies with the person submitting the comment, not The Berkeley Independent.