The passing of September makes me 63 years old. It's a birthday of no consequence. No boundary has been crossed. No symbolic meaning. No great revelations. At least 62 had the significance of me being able to apply for Social Security, even though I'm not going to. 64 has the significance of being in a famous Beatles song. But 63 -- I got nothin'.
In fact I have little to report at all. I've been doing nothing but rolling along with my life, lost in my habits. In the past I would have felt as though I'm missing out, but now I welcome a stretch of routine and normalcy. With a warmer than normal winter predicted, I'm pretty content at the moment.
