Back in 1971, there were no text messages or emails or even pagers. If you wanted to talk to someone you had to find a pocket full of change and a pay phone that worked. Or wait until later.

I was stationed in a barracks with a couple of hundred men give or take a few. We had two pay phones on the floor and when it rang it was like a bunch of outhouse parrots all squawking the name of the person the call was for. 

45. An odd number. A right angle. Thirteen degrees above freezing. A perfect corner. A quarter and two dimes. Nine nickels. 

I suppose some could say it is a magical number. 4 + 5 = 9. Nine months to bring life. The degrees of angles within a pentagram. We have nine planets. Cloud Nine. I would think size 9 to be a perfectly acceptable dress size. And of course, there is the fabled 9" of legend and lore usually prayed for and lied about. 

45. Five less than 50. Nearly half a century. Colt 45. Almost the PNR line. There is probably a good argument to be made that 45 is a man's peak and just the beginning for a woman. Seems unfair.

45. Not young. But not old. A middle number. A respectable number. 16,425 days. 394,200 hours. Umpteen minutes and beaucoup seconds. 

I sit here at nearly 1:00 am trying to figure out the meaning of 45. What is it supposed to feel like? Will there be a parade? Do I get a medal? Will Publisher's Clearing House stop by with balloons and give me a truckload of cash? 

45. Think I'll just have a bowl of cereal and go to bed. 

Happy Anniversary to me.