It’s the number between 41 and 43.
It was Jackie Robinson’s number when he played ball.
It’s also the almighty answer to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.
42 is also how old I turned as of 8:11a eastern time, which is 7:11a in the time zone I was born. That may only be interesting to me, but there you have it.
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to wax poetic today, talk about how far I’ve come in life, where I want to be when I’m 52 or shit like that, but really, I don’t feel like doing any of that.
It’s been a quiet day here: I worked the corporate gig (which, really, was a bitch today because I hate when I can’t solve the problems set before me), got some cards with some stuff, had some coffee, had some dinner with the family (including the grandkids), and even had some perfectly off-tune strangers sing me a short version of “Happy Birthday” and that was okay, too.
I guess what I’m saying is this: I turned 42, it’s neither a big deal or a little deal, it just is. Or, you could look at it this way, Robert Kennedy was assassinated at the age of 42, it’s the age Elvis overdosed and died on a bathroom floor, and hey, Ted Bundy was executed at the age of 42. Sure, those guys were all famous and shit, they’d accomplished a lot by 42, but look where they are compared to me.
All things considered, I think I’m doing pretty good, and that’s good enough.
[As a side note… if I croak before I turn 43, somebody remember this post and make me famous. I don’t care how.]