Saltzgaver

What's the No. 1 question asked of toddlers when people meet them? We ask how old they are, of course.

No doubt they have no clue what a year is, but they have been told that they are 2, 3, or 4, and they can show that many fingers.

In order to divide things in half, you have to know how many there are in the first place. In order to tell whether you have enough money to buy something, you have to be able to add up the money you have.

Going somewhere? The address will include numbers. Want to call (okay, text) someone? You, or at least your smartphone, will need the number. Try setting up a meeting without using numbers to say what time you'll meet.

And we all know everything our computers do boils down to numbers, right?

So I admit numbers are important. But some folks get a little carried away, adding meaning where meaning may not be.

Admit it — you get a little antsy when Friday falls on the 13th, don't you? When I finish a column, I always check the word count, and if it happens to be 666 words, I'll add or subtract a word; 666 is the Devil's number, you know.

I'll bet you have a favorite number, too. Mine is 3, from the number on my baseball uniform to the Trinity.

Numbers are a big deal in society at large, too. I wrote an entire “Pinch” a couple of weeks back all about St. Mary Medical Center making it to 100 years old. There's going to be a huge party because of a one and a couple of zeros.

I'm not sure I understand exactly why we seem to be so fixated on numbers that end in a 5 or a 0, but there's no arguing that it is a big deal. For example, there aren't too many big parties for a 26th anniversary, even though it means you made it one more year past the 25th. Did you go to your 49th high school reunion? I didn't even go to the 50th, but again, that's another story.

Zeros are an even bigger deal. I suppose that's partially because we humans have pretty much settled on a base 10 arithmetic. Not too subtle — 10 fingers, 10 toes, you know.

We have a word for 10 years — a decade — and for 100 years — a century. Do you know what a millennium means? Wrong. It's 1,000 years, not a million years. I have no idea why.

Once upon a time, being 65 years old was important — it was retirement age. Our benevolent federal government messed that up while trying to save Social Security, but it's still the demarcation line for qualifying for MediCare.

All of which is my convoluted way of trying to explain why I'm a little apprehensive about today. I'm hitting a zero birthday. Three score and 10, to be exact.

Sometimes I feel my age, but more often than not I think of myself as somewhere around 40 — and occasionally act more like a teenager than anything else.

But there it is. I'm old. I'm not retired, but I'm no spring chicken, either.

Thank God that come Sunday I'll be working on a boring 71. I can handle that.