Barring tragedy, I will on Monday have completed my 67th lap around the sun, which apparently is the hippest way to announce one’s birthday. That is a shade more than 39 billion miles traveled, which helps explain why I need a nap each day.

If you are like many folks and struggle with the difference between a million and a billion, understand that a million seconds is about 11.5 days while a billion seconds is almost 32 years. So, they are different.

I had never contemplated the age of 67, at least until I reached 66 and it became my No. 1 goal. I surely did my share of dumb stuff a half century or so ago that would have lengthened the odds of this achievement, which only requires not dying, but here I am.

My heart surgeon deserves much of the credit.

It was at 12:56 a.m. on Aug. 26, 1957, at a Chapel Hill hospital that a 22-inch, nine-pound, 15-ounce bundle of joy made the transition from fetus to being, the second of Joyce and Gene Douglas’ four children, and their immediate favorite. I have gained 51 inches and 211 pounds since then and remain the favorite.

I share this news not with an expectation that my family, friends and casual acquaintances will scurry to amazon.com and send me a gift – although I do not want to discourage that. As I often say, I accept birthday gifts year-round to relieve people of the burden of remembering the date.

Besides, Facebook will inform my 2,684 “friends,” a small percentage of whom I have met, that my birthday is Monday. I typically get about 400 happy-birthday messages on Facebook, which makes me wonder what the problem is with the other 2,300 or so.

My mother called this week, and we had the same conversation that we have had for about 30 years as August yields to September, which goes like this.

Mom: “Donnie, what do you want for your birthday? And don’t tell me nothing.”

Me: “Nothing.”

Mom: “Please come up with something.”

Me: “OK, I will think about it and let you know.”

A key part of maintaining favorite-child status is doing as your mother instructs so I have decided a massage at the fitness center would be nice. I have been thinking about getting one as temporary relief for chronic back pain but struggled to think that an hour of bliss is worthy of my $80, which is what I make during a long day of my retirement gig. But I have concluded that a massage is worth someone else’s $80, and that not pulling out my credit card afterward will enhance the experience.

Now if any of you Facebook friends are agonizing on what to get me, I have created a fundraiser to benefit the Robeson County Humane Society on Facebook, the mention of which is the real reason for today’s column. The rest is just fill.

The goal is to raise $1,000, and there is a long way to go. Thanks in advance to those who contribute.

I can now speak with authority and confirm that getting old does indeed suck and the reminders are relentless. It is not only the aches and pains, but there is the constant reminder that there are few things you do as well now as you once did, ranging from rolling out of bed to playing golf.

I returned to the game about four years ago after a decade or so of self-imposed asylum and was thrilled to realize that technology, both the golf ball and the golf club, had advanced enough that my 63-year-old self could hit the ball the same distance as my 28-year-old self, and I still had a hint of a game.

A goal of any aging golfer is to shoot his age. I know that shooting a 67 is exactly a single-stroke easier than shooting a 66, and perhaps attainable if I ever swallow my pride and advance to the gold tees at Pinecrest CC.

And if I cannot manage a 67 during the time that is my age, on Aug. 26, 2025, shooting my age will again be a single-shot more attainable. So, I have that to look forward to.

Barring tragedy.