It’s 11:46 pm here in California.
In 14 minutes, I turn 47.
Yikes.
It’s one of those ages where you’re not really sure what to do. I mean, I’m not 50. But I’m no longer close to 40. I’m halfway to 94, which is pretty weird, and I’m also 23.5 times two. Earlier this evening I found myself sitting next to a couple of high school sophomores at a dinner, and they surely see me as this elder; this old man. I’m not in my 70s, but suddenly 70 feels more like a contemporary that, say, 25. Or, put differently: Were I single, it’d be just as normal for me to date a 25-year old as it would a 70-year old. I think.
I’m grateful for what I have. Family. Career. House. I’m blessed with supportive parents and tight friendships. I play basketball every Saturday morning, write for a living, know all the words to “Ice Ice Baby.” Aging is stranger than many younger people know. You’re a kid—you’re young. You’re a teen—you’re young. You graduate college—you’re young. You’re late-20s—you’re young. You’re newly married—you’re young.
Then, blink. No more athletes are your age. You’re not an up-and-comer. There are presidential candidates who were born in the 80s.
You’re middle aged.
A part of me still wants to be a youngster. But that’s impossible.
I’m 47.
