Forty Nine, dear.

My brother, who’s two years younger than I, emailed a birthday wish to me today. He commented on how old we’re getting (and that I’ll always be older).

Yes, I’m hanging onto my forties by the tiniest thread now. That’s okay. I’ve got a lot be happy about. I also realized two things about being 49 years old:

When my dad was the age I am now, I was 28 years old.
Wow.
My grandmother, Budgie, was 49 when I was born.
Double-wow.

Like I said, I don’t mind it. To be honest, several friends of mine back in the 80s and 90s never got the chance to be 49. So, although my youth is gone, I feel like I’m getting to do something that eleven friends of mine never got to do.

Even if my life ended right now, I doubt that anyone who knew me could say I haven’t lived a very full life; one that has been filled with a myriad of experiences.

I’ve been a musician, a banker, a restaurant manager, a monk, a friar, a substance abuse counselor, a writer and columnist, and now I supervise a statewide program that serves people with disabilities and get to travel the great expanses of Illinois every month.

I've also wanted to be a truck driver or a court reporter. I haven't done that yet.

Maybe someday I’ll decide what I want to be when I grow up.

Life has been tough at times. Sometimes, really tough. But I’ve always tried to grow from those experiences and, if anything, it’s caused me to look at life with a certain amount of humor. After all, what are the other options?

I have a good job, a nice place to live in a great city, the most wonderful friends one could hope for and Tivo. I'm single and that's perfectly fine. (Frankly, I can't imagine sharing my Tivo with anyone).

I've recently discovered that I love tomato juice.

I'd like to think I've gained a lot of wisdom along the way. I need to get to the gym and lose about 25 pounds.

Wouldn’t you know it?
I finally get my head together and my ass falls apart . . .