Today I am 53 years old. That seems weird to me. I am now older than the highest jersey number I ever wore.
We had a great weekend celebrating. Peggy had been in Dallas all week shooting a movie so we met in San Antonio and celebrated my birthday and my sister’s birthday with the entire family. We watched LSU beat South Carolina. Had the kind of fun you can only have with family. Hung out in the pool. Grilled on Sunday and didn’t watch the Saints lose to the Eagles. Great weekend.
We traveled back home today and let the weekend celebration be enough. A birthday on a Monday is always a little odd, anyway. Who wants to celebrate on Monday? Of course, Peggy and I have rarely celebrate anything on the actual day. One benefit of all the travel we both did for work when we were first married — you celebrate when you have the opportunity regardless of the day. It has carried over into a wonderful tradition that makes it almost more fun to celebrate on the wrong day…
Maybe the combination of a wonderful time with family and the Monday thing is what made me think of my mother so much today. She was only fifteen years older than I am today when she died. One of the (very few) things that sucks about being the youngest child is that you are really not prepared when a parent dies young — I was only 39 when my Mama died. She was only 34 when her Mama died. It is pretty sobering to think that there may only be fifteen more years of this life we have built.
Is it OK to say for my birthday I want more than fifteen more years with Peggy?
Live it to the fullest, my friends. The whole box of chocolates thing, you know?