Fifty-five days to my fiftieth birthday, that is. It's not such a long time to inhabit this planet, in the grand scheme of it all. Still, thinking about those friends and family members who didn't make it 50 years gives me reason to ponder why I did. Or will, barring unforseen disasters.
I've tempted fate, fêted temptations, and just plain made my share of stupid decisions that could have -- but somehow didn't -- end badly. But enough of all that . . . I have actually been looking forward to and not dreading this upcoming natal celebration. I confess that it's probably partly because most of the folks who've known me less than 30 years can't believe that I'm "as old" as I am. Still, I can't claim to look as good as most of the mostly-plasticized 50-year olds in the public light. That's okay with me though; there's really nothing like 50-year olds who look like 50-years olds, dammit.
Oh, and the illustration has nothing (nothing Mucha?) to do with this post; I just like it.