Happy Birthday to Me

Well, here it is.  The Big 4-8.

For my fortieth birthday, I seriously contemplated jumping out of an airplane. With a parachute.  And an instructor strapped to me.

I wimped out after watching a news story about a woman who did just that, but then her parachute did not open and neither did the instructor’s. But he was heroic and did break her fall with his own body.  She survived; he is paralyzed. That didn’t settle my fears.  Maybe I’ll mirror George H.W. Bush and parachute out of an airplane at periodic birthdays as I age.  I mean, what the hell, at ninety or a hundred, I might want the end to be expedited.

But for this birthday, on December 7, Pearl Harbor Day (is that an omen?), I am going to have endoscopic carpal tunnel surgery. Supposedly, I am going to be back to normal the next day, driving, typing, living… but I doubt I’ll be jumping out of any airplanes.  Not until I’m ninety.