Today, I'm 48 years old. 48 might not seem all that special on its surface, until you convert it to a nice, round 110,000 in binary. (For the record, I don't feel a day over 101,011.) Four dozens, three Sweet-16s, one-third of a gross. 48 is semiperfect and Narcissistic, and it is the smallest number with exactly ten divisors.
There are 48 hours in a weekend, and I've been alive for the equivalent of 8,766 of them.
You could say this is a great day because it's absolutely beautiful outside. 74 degrees, breezy and cloudless.
You could say it's because the Yankees have been eliminated from the playoffs, or that AMC is running a Breaking Bad marathon all day long.
You could say it's because I'm so grateful for all your helpful comments, Likes, DMs, RTs, +1's, thumbs-ups, Hey Nows, and So Glad You're OKs I've received over the past couple of weeks. This is the warmest and fuzziest I've felt about the Internet since I spilled my divorce beans 5+ years ago. Thank you all so much, again, for your support and encouragement.
You could say it's because we live in an age when you can save a human's life by threading a piece of metal macaroni from his groin to his heart using a micro-fiber with a camera at its tip.
You could say it's because the last vestiges of my marionetting at the ICU are almost gone. My inner elbows no longer look like those of a heroin addict. The adhesive residue has worn off my elbows. My bruises have healed. My groin feels groiny again. My chest hair is growing back, and I look less like a Man-O'-Lantern (or, more accurately in this case, a Man-tato).
But the main reason this is a great day is that, for the first time since I was myocardially infarcted, after 16 days of confinement and clamor, I am autonomously alone in my house.
Parents and former hospital denizens: You feel me?