Not quite 40.
Everyone gets older. That observation was free of charge. I won’t bill you at the end of this blog, but if you could mention to your friends that you heard that piece of wisdom here; I’d appreciate it.
It wasn’t log ago that I read a friends post on facebook. “I’m turning 25,” she groaned, “My life is trending downward.” I guess being 39 is somewhere between old age and turning into a vampire. That reminds me. I need to turn into a vampire before I turn 40, lest I turn into sand.
I don’t blame her though. For the last year, whenever someone asks me if I am 40, my response is always the same.
How old are you?
But that’s ending soon. It started with my progeny turning 12 and getting his first girlfriend. How did I become the parent that’s absolutely terrified that my offspring is about to be unleashed upon the world as a teenager. I was downright irritating as a teenager.
I told him he was still a kid the other day. He corrected me. “Actually, I’m a pre-teen.” I’m going to white knuckle the next decade. Literally. I am driving through the teenage years like an octogenarian in an Oldsmobile. Buckle up progeny, I am about to
micromanage examine interrogate watch fact check every relationship you will ever have.
Sigh. It’s hard not to go backwards and descend into a spiral of second guessing and armchair quarterbacking my life. Remember when I was 15 and dumped the K-mart fashion model, then asked my ex girlfriend to homecoming? Horrible idea. Before you go running on about K-mart, that was a thing the 90s. They were the Wal-mart of its time. That argument doesn’t help me here, does it?
You’re fixating on the wrong point. Point being, exes are exes for a reason. Since I’m turning into a vampire at some point, you should listen to me. I may end up biting you on principle.
Turning 40 in this day and age gives a unique perspective on life. During medieval times, 40 was 70. I would be five years from death if I was a merchant, or two years, depending on how aggressive my successor was.
40 is the new 30! I can stave off death with a series of prostate checks (not fun) and healthy eating (super boring), while admitting that drinking hard liquor is the exception to the rule. All around me, people are running marathons, having mud and fanciful colors thrown on them in some bizarre ritualistic frenzy, trying to stave off….what exactly?
I hear people get injured. I almost injured my ACL in the shower the other day. Nothing worse than tearing your Achilles…in the shower.
What happened to you?
Tore my Achilles.
Why the hell would I fun run when my body already acts like a conspiratorial Roman senator?
I’m not 40 today. I’m not 40 tomorrow, but it’s coming for me. In
celebration mourning surrender of this event, I will devote several blogs to it. Stick around. You may have fun at my expense.