A friend asked me a couple of days ago what I was looking forward to most on my birthday. I said, strangely enough, not being 53. I don’t know what it is about that number. I’ve always found it odd. Of course, it is an odd number but I mean it’s always sounded strange to me; that number. It’s the sort of number one would choose in one of those “guess how many items are in the jar” games because no one would ever guess that number. It just doesn’t sound right. I told her I’ve actually been saying for months that I’m almost 54 as opposed to actually saying my age. That’s how much I dislike the number 53. No rhyme or reason to it. I just do.
So today, I’m happy to say I’m 54 years old. And that I’ll never have to be 53 ever again.
