Tag: Birthday

A long time ago

A long time ago,
And far, far away,
I saw her standing there,
Watching some new band play.

The Beatles changed the world.
Their music still resounds.
It’s better than today’s pop,
But this isn’t really about them.

The year before the Sullivan show,
(an even longer time ago),
My wife came into this world.
Not a band, but solo.

Her family pokes fun,
They tell her now she’s old.
She’s the baby, though,
So their insults run cold.

I would never poke fun.
It’s not my style.
I try to honor the aged,
As they begin their final mile.

All I can say is:

Oh, yeah, I tell you something,
I think you’ll understand.
When I tell you something,
I wanna hold your hand.

Mainly because,
I really don’t think
You should cross the street alone.
Not at your age.

Anniversary

This is the anniversary of the day
I put my Mom in the hospital.
(It’s OK, it’s just my birthday.)

April 16, 1960 was a Saturday. 
It was the day before Easter. 
After I was born that day, 
It became Holy Saturday.
(That’s an old family joke. Very old.)

If I had been born in 1930, 
I would have five years left to go.
However, life expectancy keeps going up,
So, I probably have much longer, 
Even though I am surrounded by Italians.
(I’m looking at you, Debbie and Virginia.)

53 is a pretty boring age since it’s not divisible by anything.
It’s not a five-year or ten-year anniversary.
It’s a prime number, so it’s just the 53rd anniversary.
What a snooze. 

Don’t Google stuff on your birthday.
John Denver died when he was 53.
So, did Jerry Garcia.
So, a beloved, gifted musician and John Denver.
Oh, joy.
(Apologies to John Denver fans. Take me home, country roads.)

I guess it’s time for a mid-life crisis. 
I would quit my job and open a bar, 
But I watch Restaurant Impossible, 
So I know that’s a bad idea. 

I could run off to sea and change my life, 
But crew don’t get balcony rooms, 
So, that’s not going to work. 

I suppose the biggest challenge I have today
Is figuring out how to get out of this stupid poem.
It’s rambling even worse than some of the stuff
I wrote when I was 52. 

That seems like a long time ago. 

Birthday Blues

I really don’t like my birthday much anymore.
I’m not really sure why, it used to be fun.
(I think it used to be fun.)
As I got older, it got less meaningful.
Is there that much difference between 52 and 53?

When you’re young, you’re the center of attention.
As you age, your kids are there,
Then your grandkids join in,
And, face it, they outrank you.
Plus, now you’re paying for your own parties sometimes.

Unfortunately, I was born the day after taxes are due,
So, once I got married (and divorced and remarried),
I had just spent three to five weekends or more
Calculating how little money we had and how much we had spent.
Worrying about wives and kids spending too much on you
Will always take much of the joy out of presents.

Also, presents get more expensive over time.
A Hot Wheels Lamborghini costs a lot less than a real one.
Not that anyone is ever going to buy me a real one.
Or even a Smart car.
(Mom-in-law did buy me a remote-control Mustang once. She was cool.)

What do you want for your birthday?
“A pony! A pony!” says someone under fifteen.
Over forty, it becomes something like:
“I would like to finally be out of debt. ” or
“I would like  my tests to be negative.”

Growing old can be really hard,
I suppose that’s why we still celebrate birthdays.
Even if they also make you think of the ones you’ve lost.
You realize someday you might be older than your relatives,
Because they’ve stopped aging.
(Stopping aging may be worse than birthdays.)

I’m having cake later today (I’m told), and
I commit to do my best to be non-grumpy,
But I’m not promising anything.
After all, I’m old. And grumpy.

I will say this –
After this year,  if everyone decides to skip my birthday,
Or move to once-per-decade celebrations,
Or just post insincere “Happy Birthday” notes on Facebook,
I’m down with that.

At least the taxes are done.