Happy Birthday, Dad!

Today's my dad's birthday.  He loved his birthday and he made a huge deal about it every year.  He would've been 60.

Billy and I went to see Louis CK in Baltimore on New Year's Eve.  It was a perfect evening.  The mexican restaurant we ate at beforehand had delicious food, powerful and interesting cocktails (habanero infused Patron is the real deal), and seven options for made-to-order fresh guacamole.  Billy didn't think he liked avocado until he tasted it.  Billy and I had a great time being out alone together.  And Louis was great.  I laughed so hard my face actually felt sore the next day.

Louis makes me laugh so hard because he speaks to me right where I'm at.  His willingness to face the darker aspects of life head-on is always undergirded by an overall appreciation for the human experience that conveys a sense of flickering yet persistent optimism.  That's how I feel most of the time, too-- especially these past few years.  At some point midway through the set, Louie was talking about how being 45 means he's not too old yet because people would still be surprised if he died.  He said the cut-off for death shock value is 60.  If you die before 60 people act like you've been robbed, and it's a tragedy that you don't get to know your grandkids, but if you're over 60 people are like "Well that's pretty sad, but, you know... nobody lives forever..."  I started crying, thinking about my dad and how he didn't get to see his grandkids.  This was serious, true sadness about the profound absence I feel in my life and my heart, but somehow I was laughing hysterically at the same time.  I was thinking to myself, I really lucked out that he died at 58.  He maxed out the amount of time he got to live and I still get to play the "my dad died too young" card.  Two more years and people would've been thinking, "He didn't get to meet your kids?  Well he *was* 60, maybe you should've had your baby a little younger."  As I type this, I fear it's not going to come across as funny, except maybe to my brother or sister.  But I could just imagine my dad and I laughing through a conversation about how he really got the best of both worlds by dying at 58, about how somehow that number means he lived a full life but still died too soon.  Well played, Dad.  Well played.

Happy Birthday, Dad.  We miss you so much.  I wish you could see us all now.  I wish you could hold Everett, and see Nora running around hugging and kissing everyone and everything, and have a drink with Nate and Ashley at their pub, and talk to Vickie about poop explosions and penis reconstructions, and talk to Billy about moving up the management ladder at work.  I can't begin to list all the things I wish I could talk to you about.  I wish I could've read what your Christmas letter would've had to say about me passing my comprehensive exam and everything else that our family has accomplished this year.

I can't have that conversation, though, so instead I watched Dad's farewell message slideshow again.  He says about me, "Lizzie would hustle around the soccer field, one of the most natural scoring machines we could find, but was always relegated to defending the opponent's best scorer because we knew she'd keep up and do the right thing."

Keep up and do the right thing.  I try every day, Dad.