This is 50.

What am I still doing here?

Last week, I turned fifty. When I was a twenty-something addicted to drink and horse tranquilizer, neither I nor my friends thought I would make it this far. And, honestly, I can’t believe I’m still here.

And aside from my schlong problems, I really don’t feel that old. I walk six miles a day and swim a mile, and now that I’m trying to keep my drinking to 14 drinks a week (okay, last week because of the birthday we hit 25), I feel a teenaged burst of energy, but without the awful hormonal infusions.

I’ve always wanted to write 12 books before dying, ten novels and two memoir-style books. I’ve done six so far, one a memoir. It took about 25 years, so I guess I have to make it to 75 to complete my mission. And then I shall die. To a person from Eastern Europe this kind of longevity seems like science fiction. But I’m determined to prove the actuarial tables wrong.

My birthday was celebrated with dear old friends from as far back as elementary school. It started in New York City at Soothr, my favorite Thai restaurant and ended many hours later at a Ukrainian bar in the Village (Glory to Ukraine!)

Then we continued Upstate where I purchased a ridiculous amount of meat from the Smokehouse of the Catskills (a real trip!) and a friend bought a package of Russ & Daughter goodies. I made a groundbreaking sandwich with sable, whitefish, lox, cream cheese, capers, onion and bacon. You’re welcome.

I’m oddly content with the many good things in my life even as I wait for the other shoe to drop. Here’s a final hungover toast to all of us. May we enjoy our little pleasures a little while longer.