I turn 41 tomorrow. Which is halfway to 82. Which is halfway to really, really dead.

I digress.

Forty-one is a remarkably unremarkable number. If 40 was Halle Berry, 41 is my great aunt. It’s just sorta meh, blah, whatever, yawn, ho-hum. I actually hated turning 40, because it meant I was not only old in the eyes of younger people, but, well, old. Forty-one, however, is no different than 40. It’s less remarkable, sure, but doesn’t bump me to a new level of seniority. “He’s a 40-year-old guy” and “He’s a 41-year-old guy” sound almost exactly alike. Again, ho-hum.

And yet, 41 is also a gift, and the more I remember that, the better off I am. Earlier this week, three people died on the day of the Boston Marathon. One was an 8-year-old boy who will never fall in love, never graduate college, never know what it is to see the world or taste amazingly amazingly amazing ice cream or watch his child enter the world. How can I, at 41, complain? I have a wife who dazzles me, kids who dazzle me, a job I cherish. The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming.

I am, arguably, the most blessed man in the world.

Forty one? Hell, yes.

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