I just turned sixty.
I’m a little resentful: I should be able to vote Republican, yell at kids for running across my lawn, and look forward to retirement in a few years. Alas, the Republican party has been taken over by lunatics, we don’t have a lawn, and I’ll be working until noon on the day of my funeral.
But I’m only a little resentful. I’m mostly awed by sixty years of wonder at this strange, beautiful, terrifying, mysterious world we live in. Last summer, I got to sing the Bach b-minor mass. It really doesn’t get much better than that.
And my wife still tells me I have a 10-year-old’s sense of humor. May that never change.
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