Boy, thanks to Facebook, a fellow can't ignore his birthday even if he wants to. (Well thanks, ever'body.)
Today's my 40th, and I think I know why people go a little bonkers on their 40th and not their 30th.
At the 30th, you're still measuring your life based on how you hoped or conceived it might be back when you were becoming an adult, in your late teens and early 20s. So even if you're not measuring up to your youthful notions of yourself at 30, at least you have some relationship with them.
(At 30, I was happy I was writing but sad that all my work was confined to the corporate communication "ghetto" as I called it. I loved this business but I wanted to write about things other than intranets once in a while. I managed to pull that off, writing all sorts of stuff for newspapers and magazines throughout my 30s.)
But at 40, you're past the sound barrier, beyond the gravitational pull, outrunning your headlights. What the 20-year-old you thinks of you now is immaterial, because the 20-year-old didn't think this far ahead.
Dear 40-Year-Old David: How would I know? I'm just a kid. It does trouble me that you're asking a 20-Year-Old for approval at this point. Aren't you a father by now?
That's where I'm at: Right where my dad always said I'd be, always said he was: all grown up and still feeling like a little kid, sometimes with nothing to do on a rainy day, sometimes anxious about bringing my report card home, usually scared of the big kids, often confused about what to do and, still, usually glad to wake up in the morning and see what will happen next.
I loved that last para – it really is a perfect description for almost anyone of any age (it certainly nails MY reality – and I’m a few years past 40) and how life seems.
Basically, I figure if I DO wake up on any given day, I’m ahead of the game and should take advantage of it and do something with the day.
Happy Birthday David!
Happy birthday, David. I think the mind (the male mind, anyway) freezes at about 19 years old. That’s why dad is usually the one who get into trouble with the kids — and faces the scowling wrath of mom.
I remember 40. Well, I think I do.
Glynn, to wit:
Yesterday while walking Scout home from school, I found the wheel of a shopping cart lying on the sidewalk.
Naturally, I rolled it down the sidewalk as far as I could.
It took an unanticipated hard left turn and careened onto Ogden Blvd., briefly disrupting the flow of rush-hour traffic and causing Scout to exclaim, “I hope we don’t get caught by the police.”
Of course, if the police came you could have just blamed Scout and promised to keep her under better control in future. “Kids, officer, you know how they are…”
It’s my wife’s birthday today as well. When I told her “Hey, my writerly acquaintance in Chicago has the same birthday as you – check out his blog post on turning 40” her response was “I’m only 32 – people turning 40 are so old.” Happy Birthday, David.
Tell the young lass happy birthday back, Reuben.
Wait till you hit 50, my friend. You won’t even remember what 40 was because you’ll be spending your time and attention contemplating the precipice in front of you rather than the regrets behind. On a brighter note, you’ll have an even more finely tuned appreciation of what’s really important, and even more wisdom and power to help you get what’s important done.
Happy Birthday!
Wait until you turn 42, pal. That’s where the serious introspection turns into a constant fear of dying.
Happy Birthday! Let’s get together for a beer soon.
Steve C.
Wait until you turn 42, pal. That’s where the serious introspection turns into a constant fear of dying.
Happy Birthday! Let’s get together for a beer soon.
Steve C.