My Dad was 25 when I was born. His mother was 25 when he was born. I did not have a baby when I was 25, so the pattern was a short one.
When Dad turned 50 we had a pool party at the apartment complex where is mother lived. My mom and sisters were there, as were our significant others and some family friends. We must have had a barbecue at the pool. My sisters and I probably rubbed baby oil (not sunscreen) on our youthful skin, much more concerned about tanning than aging, which we were certain wouldn’t actually happen to us. I remember that the guy on his way out of my life, in a moment of meanness and frustration with our failing relationship, threw me in the pool that day after I’d gotten fully dressed. I also remember that during the party a local radio station played a song dedication from me to my dad, The Grateful Dead’s Touch of Gray.
Tonight we celebrate my Dad’s 75th birthday. I got whiplash this morning before I got out of bed as I remembered his 50th birthday party — how did that much time pass so quickly? Before I set foot to floor, I realized that in not too long I will have my own 50th birthday.
You know where this is going, right? If the space between my dad’s 50th and his 75th can become so compressed, then the space between my 50th and 75th can also become so compressed. Before I know it, I will be honoring my 75th birthday.
Which sounds, frankly, undesirable, but certainly beats the alternative.