fifty. one. years.
That seems impossible. Fifty-one year olds are old, doddering, wrinkled. Old. How can I continue to feel 25 when my back cracks and my knees shoot the occasional warning pain? It's bizarre that there are no significant wrinkles, yet keeping away the gray is a weekly endeavor. Fifty one years ago on Palm Sunday, eight pounds of dark eyed, curly-haired baby girl dashed her daddy's last hope for a son. Life is filled with disappointments, yes? And joys. Yes. Happy day to all of you.