It’s been a while since I wrote anything on this blog. It certainly isn’t for a lack of things to complain about. On any given day, a casual glance at the front page of a newspaper usually cranks up my brain and begins a ranting, inner monologue that would make Andy Rooney cringe.
I guess I’ve just been busy.
I had planned on returning to this space a few weeks ago, right around my 40th birthday. I figured this milestone occasion would certainly inspire some kind of profound observation about the rapidly passing years or bring me to an enlightened perspective that can only be achieved after four decades of life. As it turns out, I was wrong. Turning 40 doesn’t feel any different than turning 39 or 38 or 37. Sure, people like to make a big deal about it. There are novelty t-shirts and coffee mugs and greeting cards that celebrate and/or mock the 40th birthday, and some people jokingly call you “old man” for a few days, but none of these things really makes it feel important. It feels like just another birthday.
Sure, I’m getting older. But I’ve got a long ways to go to catch this guy.
I couldn’t really write about 40 somehow representing the end to my physical competency. I can still play soccer and basketball and run and hike without a steady diet of cortisone shots. In fact, the weekend after my 40th I ran a half marathon and set a personal record finishing, for the first time, in less than two hours. I wouldn’t say I’m in the best shape of my life, but I feel great and have fewer health problems than the average American my age. (Though to be fair, that’s not a high bar. Studies seem to indicate that the average 40-year-old American is a tub of goo.)
I couldn’t write about having some epiphany regarding my mortality because I’ve been overthinking my own death for years. I don’t need a big, round number attached to my age to make my mind spiral into the sad, lonely abyss that accompanies the thought that I will one day cease to exist. That’s a well-worn road I’ve been going down since I started watching Six Feet Under.
I couldn’t write about any philosophically astute conversations I’ve had with close friends who are also turning 40 because I haven’t spent time with those people yet. That’ll happen this weekend when I meet up with some old college buddies in Austin. We’re getting together less because we’re all turning 40 and more because turning 40 makes it more acceptable for us to shun our children and significant others in order to drink heavily for four days. But the truth of the matter is that this digestion-altering trip probably won’t involve a lot of profound discussions about the nature of aging. I think it’s mostly going to involve BBQ, booze, and dick jokes.
I guess things are changing. But it seems to be happening at such a slow rate I’m not noticing it. I’m sure all the stereotypical signs of aging will catch up with me at some point. Eventually my body will begin to betray me, I will probably reexamine my place in the metaphysical universe, and I’ll get together with my best friends and have humorously melancholy conversations about how many times we’ll all get together before one of us is worm food. It’s just not happening all at once. And it’s certainly not happening because I turned 40.
This is 40. And quite honestly, it doesn’t feel that bad. BRING ON 50!
(I’m just kidding. Turning 50 is going to be the worst day in the history of bad days. I mean, it’s really gonna suck. Now that’s a birthday that will inspire a relatively decent blog post.)
Mr. Sunshine 