Sixty

I just turned 60.

This has made me indescribably gloomy.

Not that I’m not generally gloomy…..but now I am indescribably so, which means I need to stop typing or else I’ll disprove my own point.

It’s no secret that I dislike birthdays. Always have. I want no fuss. No cake. No presents. No reminders that I am, indeed, old. I can be both grateful that I’ve made it this far, and unhappy with the ticking-clock portion of said journey. If I could go from 59 to 61 I would do so. There’s no need to rub it in.

Each decade hits, and spurs some type of reflection. Forty is the real middle age, although somehow nobody notices. Forty is the last gasp of forgivable immaturity. You still have the strength to do stupid shit and recover in time for work the next morning. With enough duct tape and Just-For-Men you can still hold your looks together. You still don’t need to buy all new belts. Forty is the last time you truly recognize your 20 year old self in pictures.