On the Occasion of my Seventy-Fifth Birthday.

Turning seventy-five probably should be an occasion for sombre reflection, a time to attempt to reconcile the glibly-perceived, carefree imagined future of callow youth with the inevitable disappointment of reality; to ponder the chasm that separates expectations from outcomes.

It is also a deeply personal occasion for contemplating the deprivations associated with the passage of time - energy, motivation, hair, libido, self-esteem (perhaps not: it's hard to loose something one has never had), relevance (ditto), status, (ditto again), muscle tone, visual acuity, the need for only one hearing aid, being 5 foot 10, working with attractive young ladies (somewhat muted by loss #4) an upward urinary stream trajectory, etc.  

But, unless it is grasped as an opportunity to get so completely blootered that one is able to blot out the horror of the prospect of an increasingly truncated future, it is the path to madness and despair. 

Fortunately, the depression and introspection which accompanied recent birthdays has gone and I am resigned to my fate, although "Happy Birthday" just seems like the wrong greeting.

"Hang in there, old fella!" would probably cover it.