And they would be right. I am 47. Today is going better than the birthday when I attended someone else's birthday party, but probably not as good as some others, although I can't recall any really good ones. My birthday has always been an afterthought, nestled in among the hazy days after New Year's Day and before the year really gets going. I am not complaining. It's just a day. On January 3rd, 1967, I was inside my mother's body, and the next day, I wasn't. My mother can no longer remember it, and I never could. My sister was celebrating her own birthday that day, and probably didn't think it was that great to have me literally spewing bodily fluids all over it. Oh well. I didn't ask to be born, and at least I'm holding my own, with a job and a house, and I'm paying taxes. I'm not contributing much else, but at least I'm pretty much a net positive, not that this blog puts me over the top. Forty-seven. I go on.