It is time, once again, for my yearly plea for attention that is the announcement of my birthday. I am 68 years old today and it blows my mind. When I was a kid, I paid little attention to age. I knew my parents were adults and older than me, and their parents—my grandparents—were similarly older than them. That was it. I had a vague notion around age 10 that if I lived to 40, that would be really old, not quite grasping that my parents were older than that age at that point. Yeah … sometimes I was dumb like that.
So, as I near the end of my seventh decade on this planet—and let me be clear, to my knowledge, I have no recollection of living on any other planet—I find myself once again in a reflective mood, and not because I’m staring at myself in the mirror, in a feeble quest to know thyself. 68 boggles my mind, as does the third year of my retirement. I’ve kept busy, and by and large content, with some simple things that I enjoy: Books, walks, books, naps, books, streaming TV series, and books. The occasional happy hour with a friend at a favorite local restaurant. I like pizza. And bagels. Oh, and books. Did I mention books?
My wanderlust has tapered off. Travel has lost a lot of its luster. People are dicks, planes are giant metal tubes filled with those dicks and their germs, and it’s just not as fun and exciting as it used to be. The thrill of travel is gone for me. I have one big trip planned for later this year, back to my beloved UK, and that’s it. I haven’t traveled at all this year other than that. I don’t know what the future holds beyond that trip, travel-wise, for me. I’ve lost the urge to go roam around bookstores in New York City, Portland, and Seattle. San Francisco just has one of those giant no symbols painted in bright red over top of it in my brain every time I think of it. I hate to drive to Los Angeles and back anymore, and the last time I visited the great bookshop, The Last Bookstore in downtown L.A., I ended up feeling incredibly unsafe—especially when one of the security guards inside the entrance mused aloud, “Man … what the hell happened to this place?” (Meaning L.A.) as he had to deal with a combative homeless person who wanted to come in out of the rain. (Paying for $15.00 for parking, didn’t help, either.) So the days of happy-go-lucky hopping on a plane, train or automobile to go bookstore shopping are over for me. I think the days of owning a car are nearing the end, too.
Yes, I feel 68 years old (and reading this, sound it), but in a lot of ways I don’t. Aches and pain-wise, I do, but I’m relatively happy. I’m not running any marathons, but I am walking close to six miles each day. I am writing a lot here on this blog (a word I still hate, because it conjures up visions of dial-up modems and AOL telling me “You’ve Got Mail!”). I’m working on another “Tales from My Spinner Rack” panel presentation, this time for the big one, Comic-Con in July, just six short weeks away as I type this. I get frustrated and angry over little things—like a book I know was mailed but can’t seem to get here—and beat myself up over others (no, you shouldn’t have that giant chocolate chip cookie from Panera, but what the fuck, Gary … go ahead). My health is relatively good, except for my A1C, which beats me up on a number of different ways, hence that classic Gemini back-and-forth in my head.
Speaking of blood sugar … that cake up top is not for me. It’s just a photo I took in my local Smart & Final, purely for illustration purposes. That cake is destined for someone else’s birthday party in the near future. But that’s okay. I’ve always been more of a pie guy. But happy birthday to me nonetheless. Thanks for stopping by.
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Best wishes, Gary.
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