It’s my birthday this week. Or, as I’ve been calling it ever since menopause, “that time of the year.” My birthday wish would be for it to pass without anyone knowing or caring – the same way my Edgar used to treat our anniversary. I’m even jealous of people who are born on the big holidays, like Christmas Day or when Victoria’s Secret has their semi-annual Bra Event, because holidays make people forget. I wish I’d been born on December 7, 1941, but I was already out of college by then. Everything reminds me of how old I am today; from being bumped by a younger comic, to plans for a “retrospective” of my career, which just means a filmed obituary. And when Life Alert asked me to star in their new TV ad, I said, “I’m crestfallen, and I can’t get up.” Anyway, I’m tired of this birthday funk, so I’m going to New York to see if Margie can cheer me up. She even said something about the two of us getting some “ink”, but I don’t need to see my name in the paper. They’ll be printing my obituary soon enough. Cheers!
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