Today is my brother's 40th birthday. My baby brother. Who, if I may say so, looks far far far older than I do, thankyouverymuch. Heh.
It is just not possible that this kid who used to drive me absolutely out of my mind with irritation is, you know, an actual grown-up. Mike was a drummer in the school band. Every day I'd drive to school in a bright yellow VW bug and he'd drum on the dash, the steering wheel, my arms, my legs, (apparently my head was the cymbal). When that wasn't enough noise and aggravation, he'd roll down his window and add the roof of the bug for a deeper percussion echo. Every day after a twenty minute ride to school, I'd climb out of the car so thoroughly spazzed, I vibrated like Wile E Coyote after he'd stepped into the handle of a shovel.
The funny thing was, in spite of how he thrived on making me nuts (or nuttier) I'd have stepped in front of a truck for my baby brother, and often did, metaphorically speaking, when he'd get in trouble with our dad.
It's amazing to look at him at forty, this funny, bright, grown-up, who's a successful karate instructor (he's a Master, a fourth-degree black belt), with two schools, a new (happy) marriage. Who knew? (I did, truly.)
Happy birthday, my brother.