So, I turned 42 yesterday.
Forty-Two years old.
42 isn’t a number that jumps out at anyone as an age to ponder.
Every birthday brings about a certain amount of introspection. This year, the run-up to birthday number42 consisted of basically pondering if 42 really even matters.
Between watching my sons grow up and my own memories of birthdays past, I find myself intrigued by the significance we place on certain birthdays
Childhood is an exponential experience where each birthday is monumental, because you haven’t had very many and it never gets old to have your own holiday. (To those of you born on actual holidays, yeah…I am sorry about that)
Once you hit 21, only the round numbers stick out. Even as the evolution of humanity has changed what it means to be thirty, forty, or fifty, those numbers maintain a certain gravitas. Even the 5s (25,35,45,55) gain cache by marking the halfway point between round numbers. So wither a random year like 42?
The only thing Significant about 42 is Jackie Robinson, and that is rather kitschy. But as an acknowledged baseball guy…That’s what we are going with this year.
This is my Jackie Robinson year. And it begins tomorrow, since I was born at 11:35 pm EST.