Elvis would have turned 76 on January 8, and I've got to say I usually don't go in for all the hoopla surrounding his birthday every year. (This year's celebration included one of the Chilean miners.)
This year, though, to quote The King, I'm all shook up. I stopped and paused for a second, but not because my affection for Lisa Marie's daddy has grown any stronger. Nope -- it's because I just remembered that Elvis died when he was 42, the same number of candles that were on my cake this year.
Not sure why, but the fact that I'm now older than Elvis was when he died is a mortality milestone for me, a reminder that as time goes by, I'm -- and we're all, of course -- getting that much closer to leaving the building. Same thing happened when I hit 29, which a Superman writer once claimed was the Man of Steel's constant age, and when I turned 33, the same age a carpenter from Nazareth was when he met his maker. Or every time I talk with a doctor who looks like he's 12.
There's a silver lining to sprouting grey hair, though: Every year that goes by makes the memories from my childhood all the sweeter. (It's been an especially positive ride over the past year, as Gael and I wrote the book and really immersed ourselves back in the '70s and '80s. Mmmm...pudding pops.)
So, even though this year your birthday is a little more jarring than most, thanks for that reminder, King. Thank you very much.