So. Forty-five. Today I am halfway through the period most noted for middle-age crises, the onset of gout and a last-ditch effort to cling to your youth by having a child.
So far I am two for three.
Phrases like "young at heart" and "patriarch of the group" are starting to sting. I still look 40, I guess. But at somewhere near this age, you start aging in bursts. You'll look the same for three years, then age five all at once.
You start worrying that every little pain is a disease. That other people your age are making more money, enjoying more success and are more healthy than you. You begin realizing that your vision isn't QUITE as clear, your thought processes aren't QUITE as fast, and the idea that you will skydive or whitewater raft for a living fades a little further into the din. (Oh, don't worry, the hope is still there.)
A family member sent me an email this morning to excoriate me for forgetting to pay their satellite TV bill this month. The great news is, I can more believably attribute it to forgetfulness. The bad news is, they didn't even wish me "happy birthday." All the better I suppose. I DO hope to someday forget this date.
Here's hoping it blows through like a gentle breeze. As Lucy Larcom said, "Whatever with the past has gone, the best is always yet to come."
Yup. And I'm the luckiest son-of-a-bitch on Earth.