Is it Really Just a Number?

It’s been said that a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.  True, but is a theory you’d want to test out if the rose was instead named the All-American Summer Armpit?  I don’t know that I’d be brave enough.

All that to say, I’m having trouble with this “40” thing.  And I kinda have been, actually.  Since, like, I don’t know…I was 39 or so.

At first I was excited.  Big time.  I have, what is known in some circles as a “baby face” and I thought, that if people at least knew that I was 40, that they would give me a pass on the face and think me more cultured and mature.  Turns out, I was sort of deluding myself a bit.  People are shocked when they hear that I am 40, but it hasn’t bought me any more “boy, you must have some real life experience” credits than before.  Kind of a bummer. 

All that aside, though, I’m starting to feel a tiny bit of…well, what can only be described as panic.  There are a lot of things that I am no longer, at 40.  I’m no longer able to metabolize yesterday’s stack of comfort pancakes, for example.  They seem, now to simply reform themselves, much like the Robert Patrick terminator, in my stomach, where they proceed to turn on their end and push outward against my belt. 

I am no longer able to find an occasional gray hair.  I see them every day, every time I look in the mirror, as they stand up to say good morning no matter what hour of the day.

I am no longer able to drink a six pack and wake up the next morning ready to drink another.  For that matter, I am no longer able to get in the morning without grunting, groaning, inhaling sharply, cracking or popping something or farting. 

I am no longer able to walk into a bar wondering if I will need to grab my id out of the glove compartment. 

I am no longer able to take for granted that, if someone is wildly interested in what I am saying, it’s because he or she really wants to fuck me.  Further, I am no longer certain that a dinner invitation means I’ll be working off the meal later that night.

I’m no longer able to tell myself that my Harley isn’t a mid-life crisis vehicle, that I don’t look like I’m trying to hold onto youth when I’m driving my Jeep, or that playing my radio too loud isn’t more annoying than cool.

I think my days of free passes are over. 

So yeah…40 is stressing me out.  I’m hoping that, by 41, I will be a little more comfortable in mid-life shoes.  That I will embrace my adulthood with a “yeah, bitch!” attitude and the confidence to match.

I hope.