67

“67” is a meme apparently, a digital fart of no fixed meaning, a trendy bit of forgettable social media nonsense awash in the general nonsense of social media. It is also, as of today, my age for the next year. One of those ages of no particular promise, not a 0-birthday, or a 5-birthday—decadal or semi-decadal—not a schnappszahl (divisible by 11), and not one of those more broadly culturally recognized birthdays, threshold birthdays: Sweet 16, 18, 21, 30, 50, 65, 70, 100. My second Henry—Adams—tallied his birthdays with some attention. “At sixty-seven,” he observed, “one knows one’s nervous system at least.” Perhaps not completely. We should always be a little open to surprise, I think, but I probably knew my nervous system much earlier, starting at 13. We’ll have to see if my 67 has any numerological significance to speak of.