Johnson: How does anyone survive turning 50? By cashing in
They had to go do it, to remind me in black and white of the one thing I was desperately trying to ignore for just a few more months.
In my mind, you see, it still seems like only, well, at least a couple of weeks ago that I was taking out of its plastic wrapper the powder-blue tuxedo, bow tie, cummerbund, and dress shirt with the ridiculously puffy blue ruffles that I wore along with white shoes beneath a giant, perfectly trimmed Afro to my senior prom.
That I cannot remember the name of the girl I took ought to remind me, I guess, of how long ago that was.
Wasn't it only a few years ago that Father Charley, unnerved by the incessant clickety clack of the steel baseball spikes I had forgotten to take off in my rush to make 6 p.m. Mass, finally stopped Communion, pulled up my altar boy's alb and glared at me?
Of course it wasn't, as the thick envelope my wife waved at me the other day screamed.
