I arrived on the Day of Infamy.

Not sure if I’m supposed to act my age. Now that I’m 80. Thing is. I’ve never considered acting my age before. Didn’t matter whether I was 10 or 20 or 30 or 40 or 50 or 60 or 70. So, why start now?  Anyway, I have no idea what an octogenarian is supposed to act like. Therefore, I’d have to merely wing it. And follow my instinct. Which is to pay virtually no attention to my age. Really, I’m too busy. To start counting the years. Though I have plenty of friends. Who keep track for me.  And needlessly and cruelly remind me. Every September 11. That it’s time to add another year to my spiraling age count. Anniversaries. Anniversaries. I don’t understand why we clodhoppers keep noting anniversaries. Even over dastardly deeds. Such as the terrorist attack. Known as 9/11. Yes, coincidentally, the same date as my birthday. But in some ways, it’s nice to have the 9/11 terrorist distraction. Makes my birthday seem incidental. A minor blip. Easily forgotten.  Replaced in importance. By new status. As the Day of Infamy.  Though come to think of it. That also may be a suitable term. For what my critics might call the regrettable day I arrived. Here on Mother Earth. --Jim Broede