69 times around the sun

Yesterday, Tuesday February 5th, 2013, was my 69th birthday.
Yrs trly was born in 1944, which means I’ve been around the sun 69 times.
I had more celebrations of my birthday yesterday than I ever had before.
It being Tuesday, I went to the YMCA in nearby Canandaigua to work out.
Entering, you go through a reception-area, and you check in by having your membership scanned by a bar-code reader — in my case a key-tag.
The bar-code reader chirps a tingle as you scan in.
I did so, and all-of-a-sudden the thing was playing the first few bars of “Happy Birthday.”
The whole lobby heard it. The receptionist wished me a happy birthday, and then a janitor did the same as I walked toward the locker-room.
After completing one machine of my workout, I advised the exercise-coach I was now qualified to program “69” into the machines.
She wished me a happy birthday, and then said hers was last week, and she avoided the bar-code reader lest it blast the entire lobby.
“If I had known that,” I said; “I woulda skipped it too. The receptionist isn’t gonna have me arrested. I’m a regular; and it looks like I forgot.
After the Y, and a supermarket, I returned to the groomer to pick up my dog, who they daycare.
They handed me a birthday-card. “Congratulations on making 69 years! We know it’s been a tough year, but you’re improving. Here’s to a year of continued healing.” (My wife died last April.)
“69 years on this planet,” I said; “and most of those I associate with are in their 40s. In fact, I only know a couple my age, and another close.”
“Well good,” they said. “Keeps ya young.”
“Maybe so,” I said; “but what I’m more inclined to think is I just can’t get interested in geezer-pursuits. I’m not into pinochle, I don’t play bridge, and I think shuffleboard and bocci-ball are silly.
What I’d rather do is fool with my ‘pyooter, sling words together, and walk my dog.”
When I got back home my cleaning-lady had been there; I trust her — I showed her where my secret key is.
She’d left me a note: “happy birthday” it said.
Then my niece called. She’s my only relative living in the local area, and she wondered if I got her e-card.
“Not yet,” I said. “I just got home, and I haven’t opened my e-mail yet.”
My niece-and-her-husband were driving someplace, and her cellphone was Bluetoothing to the car.
She cut off, so I called her landline; not knowing she was using her cellphone.
Her mother answered, and they must have caller-ID, because she answered by wishing me a happy birthday.
Another “happy-birthday” wish.
When I opened my e-mail later, my niece’s e-card wasn’t there, although it was this morning, with a note from the e-card service demanding I get cracking.
“I never got no e-card,” I responded. “This is your first notification.” I’ll have to see if RoadRunner, my e-mail service, junked it. My computer downloads e-mail from RoadRunner, where it then becomes local. —In other words, RoadRunner “junk” I never see, unless I fire up their webmail.
A girl who I dated long ago in high-school, who “friended” me on Facebook, her birthday is two days before mine.
She just turned 67, and expects another 30 years.
She’ll probably make it; I hope she does — she probably still has the right attitude.
I might make it too.
But every morning I wake up saying “and so begins another sad, sad day.”
I made 69, but my wife didn’t.
We expected she’d outlast me.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit.
• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.) —To work out at the YMCA, I must daycare my dog. The groomer is nearby, and they are old friends.
• “‘Pyooter” is computer.
• I call writing “slinging words together,” since in my case that’s what it is. This blog is “slinging words together.”