Happy Bir....

(To my friend, "Your Name Here")

My birthday isn't until tomorrow, but I'm choosing to celebrate it tonight. 

When I was a kid, I considered the year 2000 and thought, wow, I'll be forty-five! Essentially on my death bed! The good news is, it's 2018 and I'm still kickin'. And I know now that forty-five is nothing. When I was forty-five, gravity was still averted. You know that picture you run across from 1945 in the ragged family photo album and you think, really? That's my mom? Turns out that, yes, we all were young and dewy-skinned once. I don't look like myself anymore, but I'm so used to my countenance in the morning mirror that I don't give it a second thought. It's only when I (accidentally) see a photograph of myself that I realize some grievous calamity has apparently occurred.

I've given up on regaining my lost figure. It just doesn't work anymore. I'm not going to become one of those delusional fitness fanatics. I've never exercised more than ten days in my life and I'm not about to start now. Plus, I deserve to eat.

The thing about turning 63 is that I spend more time looking back than forward. I mostly choose to remember the good things. It's not that I've forgotten the bad. I can conjure up those memories in a snap if I choose to, but when I do, I tend to view them philosophically, like a neutral bystander. Humans do the best they can do with what they have. I don't hold it against my parents for what they did. They didn't damage me on purpose. 

Today I received some birthday wishes from my co-workers. My best work friend Barb brought me a single-serve DQ cake. It was awesome. The cake had a cobalt-blue plastic butterfly ring atop it and I slipped it on my finger and wore it throughout the day. Everyone I encountered chose to ignore the humongous butterfly encircling my finger; sure (no doubt) that I'd made an unfortunate fashion choice. That made me giggle. A boy (really) that I trained four years ago asked me about my birthday plans and we got to talking about retirement. I told him that 2020 is the year. He said, "It won't be any fun here without you." I didn't realize I was still "fun". I used to be fun back in 1997, when I commanded a department at Aetna (US Healthcare), but I essentially just feel tired now and don't have the energy to be engaging. How lame must everyone else be, that I am regarded as the "fun" one?

I blame (or credit) Sirius Radio with my current state of look-back. Every single song I click on evokes memories. I hover between classic country and sixties and seventies rock; and sometimes fifties rockabilly. Some of the songs make me cry, for reasons only known to me. My best friend died in 2000 (when she was only forty-five). The songs we shared together are bittersweet. I almost feel embarrassed to still love those songs, because Alice is gone and she and I can't share them. 

When I hear John Lennon's voice, my heart breaks a little. John was my education in "real" music, beginning when I was nine years old or so. 

I don't "sum up" when it comes to music. Songs are quicksilver. Songs are not dissectable, like some scientific experiment. Anyone who slices and dices music is not a music lover. I love a song by the Honeycombs and one by Tommy James, and one by Steve Wariner and "God Bless The USA" by Lee Greenwood just because. I like Boston and Gene Pitney and Bobby Bare and Dobie Gray. Nobody needs to know why. 

Happy Birthday to me.

Heroes

My friend Julie started a blog in which she talks about overused words.

In recent days, I've thought about one word that seems to be tossed about nonchalantly:  

HERO

In my mind, a hero is someone who risks his or her life to save someone else's.  And, a hero is a person who defends his or her country; who goes to war; who places themselves in harm's way; never questioning whether the cause is right or wrong.   

A survivor is not necessarily a hero.  A survivor is a survivor.

What's wrong with surviving?  

Sad, tragic, incomprehensible things seem to happen every day.  

I'm not trying to be political, so please keep that in mind.  But I'm also not trying to be politically correct.  I'm sick to death of political correctness.  I prefer honesty. 

A Congresswoman is brutally shot, but she survives.  It takes a ton of courage to fight through the fog of a damaged cerebral cortex; to endure the agony of hour upon hour of searing physical therapy.   It takes a backbone of steel to not curl up in a corner and surrender.  

This woman is a survivor.  What's wrong with that?  

Why shouldn't that be celebrated?

A pop culture icon (for once) puts his money where his big mouth is.  He appears before Congress and testifies about an issue he cares passionately about.  He donates part of his overblown earnings to help his cause.  

Is he a hero?  Or is he a "citizen"?  

You and I give money to causes we believe in.  Sometimes we donate our time as well.  Do we call ourselves "heroes"?  And if we do, aren't we being a bit precious and narcissistic?  

I admire true heroes ~ I admire them a hell of a lot.  I don't think I could be one.  I don't know; I've never been tested.  But I don't know if I could run headlong into danger, like the heroes of Boston did.

A hero is a New York City firefighter, who trudged up those stairs, knowing deep in his gut that he probably wouldn't get out alive; but he still did it.

By lumping everyone into the hero category, we dilute the true meaning of heroes.

Every life act is not equal.

Have we replaced "kudos" with "hero"?

Everyone who has survived life's punch in the gut is not necessarily a hero; me included.  

I am a "person".   

Isn't that enough?