Today a lady I met when she was twenty-five years old turns sixty years old. I haven't seen her for decades but with Facebook and all we have sort of kept up on each other. Maybe she even reads the Rock & Roll Rehab blog (which is why she shall remain nameless).
She lived in Hollywood when I met her and was an aspiring actress. She was certainly beautiful enough but like some other actresses I knew (I did work in the Entertainment Industry in Hollywood so I met quite a few back then) she always talked about moving to New York. She was in HOLLYWOOD, and she thinks New York would be an easier nut to crack? Of course now I figure that was just an excuse to let me know not to get serious about her because she was going to leave someday. No problem.
What I remember is that over the years she would always freak out on her birthday. "I can't believe I'm THIRTY!" she'd say. "I can't believe I'm THIRTY-FIVE!" and so on. This is why I'm remembering her today. I can't believe she's SIXTY! Unless motherhood and sixty years of growing up have matured her she must be really having a cow today. I hope not.
She is less than a month younger than I and although men don't seem quite as emotional about aging I'm happier about my last birthday than any previous birthday since I turned twenty-five when I expected to get a car insurance discount (I didn't). What I'm really happy about turning sixty is that I DIDN'T DIE IN MY FIFTIES! Whoopeee!!!!
I read a statistic that said if an American man lives into his sixties his chance of making it to his eighties triples. Happy freakin' birthday to me!
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