A Writer's Notebook, Day One-Thousand-Five-Hundred-And-Fifteen

It is 11:49 right now, as I write this, which means that, in just about eleven minutes, it will be my 44th birthday.  I am not sure how to feel about that, if I am honest.  I suppose it shouldn't mean much at all, should just be another day, right?  That is sort of the way my dad always seemed to think of it, is more or less what he said to me, at some point, though he didn't mind celebrating, either.  It was more that it shouldn't be taken as a big deal, which I suppose is fair enough.  I don't think it matters very much, except that I am recognizing that I am really middle aged now, as much as I have not processed that, really.  I don't know that I think of myself as much of an adult most days, if you really want the truth of it.  My father once put a sign up on the wall of the garage that said, "you are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely."  I think my mom left that sign there, actually.

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