YOU SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY...
...well, it's my birthday too, yea. Yep, one year further from the glory days and one foot closer to the grave. Or I am? I have always thought of my glory days as being filled with long nights of heavy drinking and sorority girls, but really, what was so glorious? Granted, hangovers didn't hurt as much, my body wasn't as furry and my stomach wasn't as soft, but other than that? I didn't have a decent job, okay, bad comparison, let's see...oh what about the wisdom that I have garnered over the years? Albeit, it has come in the form of lessons filled with tears, broken furniture and a Prague jail cell, but it has made me, not smarter per se, but a little more in tune with life, allowing me to better sift the grains of stupidity out as I keep panning for gold. Does that metaphor work? Sure, why not.
Where does the time go? I haven't seen it. One minute I was 20-something, walking into a bar on nickel drink night with a roll of coins in one pocket and a handful of dreams in the other, and the next minute I'm rolling out of bed with the taste of cat crap in my mouth and I'm 34 on a Tuesday. And that's it. I don't really feel any different, inside anyway, than I did 10 years ago. As far as the foot in the grave thing, whatever; the minute you're born you start dying, so I can't fight that, birthday or not. On that same note is the line from Shawshank Redemption that fits ever so perfect, "Get busy living, or get busy dying". Exactly.
My "glory days" may be nothing more than a spot on my liver now, but that's okay. I have a great wife and a son that wakes me every morning with a tap on my shoulder and a little giggle. What could be better than that? Being a dad is far more glorious than being a drunken ladies man (hey, I did okay), and it fills me up with rays of sunshine, puppy dogs and ice cream to see my son walk through this world not caring about furniture or nickels, but for his dreams- which overflow from every pocket. That is 34 on a Tuesday. That is a glorious day.