For my sixth birthday, April 30, 1975, I got a new, gold-painted Ross bike with high handlebars and a banana seat.
Joyfully and with growing confidence, I rode it around our big driveway in counterclockwise circles, while my mother sat in a lawn chair, smoked Kent cigarettes and supervised from behind a novel.
After a couple of hours, Mom suggested I switch directions and practice riding clockwise.
I couldn't do it, and crashed over and over before finally getting the hang of right turns.
That's a metaphor-in-waiting. But for what?
Maybe in my 45th year, I'll find out.