Today is my Dad’s 100th birthday.
Well, not really, but that’s what I call it. You see, growing up, whenever I’d ask my old man how old he was, he’s answer, “One hundred years old.” As a kid, it never occurred to me to question anything my parents told me. As a kid, I also didn’t get sarcasm. (I was a gullible kid, I’m afraid. On one occasion, my mom told me that she couldn’t cut my hair because she needed a special license to do so, which of course, I believed without question. On another occasion, when I asked my mom how she knew all the answers to the game show questions, she told me she’d taken a special course in college on game show questions. I’m ashamed to admit that I believed that one for many years more than I should have. But I digress.)
In my mind, my Dad celebrates his 100th birthday each year, in the same way that Jack Benny celebrated his 39th birthday forever.
It is my hope that on this hundredth birthday, this blog post and the subsequent reposting to various social media sites will cause much confusion and that many people will spent today questioning me or Dad about being 100 years old.
And wishing him a Happy Birthday, too, of course.
Happy 100th birthday, Dad!