They say it's bad manners to ever ask a lady her age, but since I am not a lady and I've pretty much already told you how old I am, manners don't factor into play here. In less than a week, I will turn the page to a new decade while also being two months closer to an even bigger milestone. And both occur on a number that most consider to be the unluckiest of all. After all, some buildings and hotels skip the number, which when you think about it, is pretty ridiculous because label the 13th floor number 14, and it's still thriteen. I suppose if someone doesn't see the number, it doesn't exist. In a way, it's just like turning 60. If you don't say it out loud, perhaps it's not really real? That's all poppycock in the long run. Reality still exists no matter if or for how long you ignore the view that's right in front of you. The clock still ticks and time moves on - even if you buy one with a silent second hand.

When I was younger, I couldn't imagine being 60. In fact, I couldn't imagine being 50. I was too wrapped up in being whatever age I was at the time, my thoughts hardly turning to such a number that was clearly far in the distance. But, I've had a lot of time on my hands these past few weeks to ponder so many things as I sit around, finally almost fully recovered from my double hernia surgery. First and foremost, is the fact that no matter what I tell myself, being married and in Texas was never an answer to that asinine question, "where do you see yourself in five years?"

In fact, I never looked ahead that many years, but looking back, I can remember where I was on so many birthdays. Whether I purposely marked the occasion alone or planned something special, I've always made sure to take in the fact that I've made it for one more year around the sun. There was the time I was in Memphis on business during dead Elvis week (look it up, it's insane) and the time I went to Provincetown. That was one for the record books as I made sure to replace every cocktail napkin given to me with ones that read happy birthday so that everyone knew just what I was celebrating. There were birthdays in Northern California being submerged in a mud bath followed by a dinner accompanied by a fabulous bottle of wine realizing that I still had to get the mud out of certain crevices. Each occasion was special in its own way. But none of them weighed on me as much as this birthday seems to be doing.

Above all, I do know that I adore the number 13. It's one reason why I suggested to John that we choose that day to get married. I've never been afraid of that number, or considered it in any way unlucky. My mom told me once that when she went into labor, besides being glad all the kicking and moving around I did would finally stop,  that her last thought was how she didn't want a girl.

"Well," I said to her on one of our European trips, "You should be careful what you ask for on Friday the 13th, because you ironically got what you wanted." I think she found that as amusing as I, but it might have been my imagination since we were both on our third or fourth glass of wine.

One birthday I really recall is turning 25.  I had just moved to California a few months earlier and before I got settled in San Francisco, I was living past the airport on the peninsula. When my birthday rolled around I wanted to spend it in the city. So, I foolishly went up to the city in shorts and short sleeves thinking August in San Francisco would be like any other city in the middle of summer. After all, summer birthdays were the best because you could celebrate outside all day and night. Needless to say, I never have to be reminded of Mark Twain's famous quote. Ever. 

Birthdays aside, to get married on the 13th also meant something special to me. It certainly is a number that you can't ignore or silence  - which is sort of a lot like me. And, though I've met quite a few people who share my birthday, I have never met anyone else who was born on a Friday or purposely chose to get married on that day. I like to think that makes me extra special.  Sometimes, though, or lately really, I think I'm the only one who thinks I'm extra special. It certainly isn't the same world as when I turned 30, 50 or hell, even 55. The world is upside down and I wonder if it will ever be right side up again. It seems impossible to try to find out where I fit  professionally here, and turning 60 certainly doesn't help those matters. My mind runs through so many thoughts. What have I accomplished? Have I done what I've always wanted to do? Is there a path still ahead of me?

But, this year, as the candles get lit, I have fully become a brand. I'm part of #Limontella, with a logo that is about as far away as you can get from the maker of baby and healthcare products. I suppose as I turn 60 that that is my greatest accomplishment. I've become more than just one person making his way through life. I have someone to share all the highs and lows of life, someone who agrees that once a year in Paris is never enough time in Paris and who wonders like me, how the heck are we going to accomplish all these plans and finish this remodel with our sanity and savings in tact? When I blow out the candles, we will be married ten months - a mere two left until our one year wedding anniversary. That on its own will conjure up a whole other set of thoughts and emotions. I don't think I'm ready yet to fully digest that, so I'll let that simmer a bit more. (And if you have to ask, the answer is yes, we still have a slice or two of wedding cake left.) The one thing all this has in common though is me and the number 13. It's not hidden, not disguised as a different numeral to make the skittish feel better. Like me, and this blasted bitch of a birthday - it's in your face and hard to ignore.