So today is my 37th birthday.
Obviously thirty-seven is not one of those generally celebrated, monumental birthdays. I mean, it’s not launching into a new decade. There is no surprise party or black balloons. I’m not getting my drivers license or the right to buy smokes or drink beer or anything else (am I?).
No, birthday number 37 (like 8, 14, and 22) is one that just happens. Nothing really special other than the fact you’ve survived another year.
Which, actually, for someone like me is pretty sweet.
Because once you’ve been dead or nearly dead, surviving another year is something to celebrate.
And even though 37 is not really special, for me it’s actually something… well… interesting, at least.
Because on this day exactly 10 years ago, I had the last of my testicles removed.