October 29, 2008
Today is my 53rd birthday.
I was born on a Saturday in 1955 at about 7:00 in the evening. My mother likes to tell the story about my birth; about how after I was born, following a five-minute, pain-free labor, she was too excited to sleep, and lay in the maternity ward, waiting for morning. I, of course, had been whisked away to some vast baby boomer warehouse nursery, since the hardy, fertile generation who bore us popped us out like guppies in a seemingly endless stream.
As the hours passed, she would ask the night nurse what time it was whenever I was brought in to be fed. At one point, she was told it was 2:00 a.m. An hour passed, and she asked the nurse again. Again she was told it was 2:00 a.m. Incredulous, she asked, "Didn't you tell me that an hour ago?" Yes, said the nurse, but this is the night that we turn the clocks back.
So, since I was born, every several years, my birthday has contained an extra hour. That is, until Congress messed things up for me last year by moving the end of Daylight Savings Time back a week.
In my foolish, misspent youth, when I would be in a bar celebrating, giddy and heedless of the lateness of the evening and confident of the resilience of the young to function the next day, I would revel in those extra hours. It would mean another round of Singapore Slings, or Tequila Sunrises, or another shot of Tullamore Dew. Another chance to charm that good-looking guy I had my eye on all night. Another round of dancing to Thunder Road or What I Like About You until I was sweaty and breathless.
There is no fabulousness like the fabulousness of the young. Clear skin, good joints, great hair, boundless energy, and time to experience everything, even the bad.
Of course, age takes its toll, and the fires of youth are banked. I speak of moderation as if it is a choice, when the process of getting old has mandated it to some extent. If I stay up all night, I pay for it for days. If I eat or drink too much, I regret it.
I do not regret much about my early days. Thrill and heartache now fill the cup of memory with a heady brew. I am glad for the opportunity to sip from it every now and then.
It is like turning the clock back, even if just for an hour.
Today is my 53rd birthday.
I was born on a Saturday in 1955 at about 7:00 in the evening. My mother likes to tell the story about my birth; about how after I was born, following a five-minute, pain-free labor, she was too excited to sleep, and lay in the maternity ward, waiting for morning. I, of course, had been whisked away to some vast baby boomer warehouse nursery, since the hardy, fertile generation who bore us popped us out like guppies in a seemingly endless stream.
As the hours passed, she would ask the night nurse what time it was whenever I was brought in to be fed. At one point, she was told it was 2:00 a.m. An hour passed, and she asked the nurse again. Again she was told it was 2:00 a.m. Incredulous, she asked, "Didn't you tell me that an hour ago?" Yes, said the nurse, but this is the night that we turn the clocks back.
So, since I was born, every several years, my birthday has contained an extra hour. That is, until Congress messed things up for me last year by moving the end of Daylight Savings Time back a week.
In my foolish, misspent youth, when I would be in a bar celebrating, giddy and heedless of the lateness of the evening and confident of the resilience of the young to function the next day, I would revel in those extra hours. It would mean another round of Singapore Slings, or Tequila Sunrises, or another shot of Tullamore Dew. Another chance to charm that good-looking guy I had my eye on all night. Another round of dancing to Thunder Road or What I Like About You until I was sweaty and breathless.
There is no fabulousness like the fabulousness of the young. Clear skin, good joints, great hair, boundless energy, and time to experience everything, even the bad.
Of course, age takes its toll, and the fires of youth are banked. I speak of moderation as if it is a choice, when the process of getting old has mandated it to some extent. If I stay up all night, I pay for it for days. If I eat or drink too much, I regret it.
I do not regret much about my early days. Thrill and heartache now fill the cup of memory with a heady brew. I am glad for the opportunity to sip from it every now and then.
It is like turning the clock back, even if just for an hour.
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1 comment:
Happy Birthday Val! Great post, as usual!
Stace
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