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Yesterday was my fortieth birthday, and I celebrated it by doing nothing. Tina baked a cheesecake using my East Coast Cheesecake recipe the day before, and we spent Saturday just trying to keep cool in the Devil’s ass crack that is this goddamned heat wave.
I probably shouldn’t think about being forty. Lots of people before me have hit this milestone. Turning forty, though, doesn’t seem as traumatic as turning thirty did. In 1996, I cut off my pony tail and got an earring in a vain attempt appear younger. On that fateful day, I wore all black and mourned my youth. But there was none of that ridiculousness this year. I guess I’m all “growed” up, eh? Nothing to fear. But I can’t help but think forty is old. I mean, it is only a number, right? Here’s some other numbers: 480 months, 2,087 weeks, 14,610 days, 350,640 hours, 21,038,400 minutes, 1,262,304,000 seconds. Now 40 years sounds like a long time. No denying it. Forty is old.
I remember being in high school and telling my friends that forty was too old. I told them when I turn forty, I wanted them to kill me. I’d rather be dead than be 40 years old. But you know, it’s not that bad, and I’m glad those friends figured I was kidding. Either that, or they forgot, or don’t know where I am. That’s a good thing.
I definitely don’t feel like forty. My body sure feels every bit of forty, though. There’s dull pain in my joints, back pain, it takes me longer to get moving in the morning then it used to, and I’m pretty sure I’m coming down with Alzhiemer's. It could happen. My maternal grandfather had it.
However, I can’t help to think about my own mortality. Ever since My Dad died last year, I’ve been thinking about my own mortality. My paternal grandfather died at 62, my father died at 59, my uncle died at 57. I figure I have about 20 more years to set goals and try to meet them. While my great-grandfather died at 28, my great-great-grandfather died in 1929 at the age of 68, so maybe there’s some hope.
There’s no fighting it. Now that I’m forty, I’m officially on the road to becoming a full on curmudgeon. I’m on the doorstep of becoming a grumpy old fart… that’s not so bad, is it? Then again, I get to look forward to doctors probing my ass for polyps, prostate exams, and continued frequent and slowed urination. Yippee!
