45 (Revolutions per Minute)

"...Bells are chiming and tears are falling
It creeps up on you without warning, 45..."
- Elvis Costello, "45"

In June 1982, I went to my first concert: Blue Oyster Cult, with Aldo Nova opening.
To my frenzied 16 year old mind, it was a Dionysian orgy of guitars, drums, lights, and fun, fun, fun.
The next day, I walked my ass to driver's training - the 6-10am course.

In February 1998, I remember my step-dad (and overall wonderful man) announce "Today is the 40th anniversary of my 21st birthday".
And we rousingly toasted his health.

In October 2002, I celebrated the end of chemotherapy and radiation treatments at home with my mom, my aunt, and my uncle, drinking beer and watching the Red Wings on TV.
That day was my life - day zero.

Not being a parent, I found myself wondering tonight if by my celebrating my birthday, my mother actually celebrated every single birthday of my 45 years.

In a way, it could be like the Tralfamadorians in Kurt Vonnegut's book "Schlachthof Fuenf" - Slaughterhouse Five - where they saw humans as centipedes - each year was a section of body... the head was the oldest version, and the tail was the youngest.

Does that happen as a parent? Do you not celebrate each year of your child's life, but rather EVERY year of your child's life?

I'm 45. I've made the "45-54" age bracket.

My life is not as exciting as it used to be, but it is even more fulfilling than ever before.

I never thought I'd see that day, yet I can't wait to see what the next day brings.

For those of us in the Western hemisphere, tomorrow brings us summer.

Finally, my old friend has come home for a visit.

45.