This is 40

It’s official: I am 40 years of age. Don’t start pointing: I know what it means. It means I’m married man with a kid who dresses like a dork and never leaves the house. So what?

I mean, I was never gonna become a rock star, now, was I? For that, you need to have the personality of a Freddie Mercury. Or the vocal chops of a Freddie Mercury. Or the style of a Freddie Mercury. And, ideally, all of the above. Instead, the best I could have hoped for is knock-off-Bob-Dylan-at-the-local-folk-fair. And that’s just not me: I don’t do fairs. In any event, we will likely never know: even if I actually start my singing career now (there is a song I have been meaning to record for the past 8 months but was too busy/lazy to), what are the chances I will ever make it past my living room? The cat says — none.

Anyway, back to real life and the aforementioned cat. I woke up this morning as if the world around me knew it was my birthday. I mean, my wife does — she organized things for my gift: a full-sized digital piano for me to have even less of an excuse not to give that music career a go — but neither baby girl #1 nor the cat quite seem to understand what all the fuss is about. Baby girl is all about milk and naps, and the cat is all about… virtually the same. Yet, Sophia let me sleep in past 9, which is always appreciated, and smiled at me with all her non-existent teeth after that. And drooled on me quite a bit too: I choose to take it as a sign of affection.

Meanwhile, the cat jumped for joy as soon as I did wake up, purring and rubbing himself on my arm. Then he proceeded to bite said arm for no explicit reason.

This is 40…