Tomorrow, apparently, is my lucky day. At long last, I finally get to experience living in my “birth year.” Born on April 11, 1960, I will turn 60 years old. My age will match the last two digits of the year in which I was born. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. Yippee. I had never heard of this. That is, until my good friend Miriam from Delaware emailed me a New Yorker article from 2007. “Hey, Jinny! Here’s a pertinent piece for your pre-birthday perusal,” she wrote with her usual aplomb and alliteration. Miriam is a wordsmith and the best copy editor I have ever known. She still makes me pee my pants…