Happy birthday to me.

I'm fifty-seven today. If live to be fifty-eight, I'll be defying expectations. Of course, folks often live longer than they expect. My father expected to be shot by a jealous husband before he was forty. He wasn't, though it was not for lack of jealous husbands, nor for lack of justification.

Actually, there have been times in my life when I didn't expect to live a whole lot longer. The early Seventies, when I was serving the great Satan of communism, was one such time. And Bob Wright and I still marvel at how we made it out of the Nineties intact.

Yet, here we are again. You know, if I'd thought I was going to live this long, I'd have taken better care of myself.

Oh, well. I have a doctor's appointment at one. But whether I succumb to natural causes or a rogue federal bullet is still even money.

So, happy birthday to me. I think I'll skip the cake.

Mike
III