It was my birthday on Friday. Had a short day at work, moved five feet away from my desk to my couch and napped, then went out for dinner with friends to Roost. It was a very good day. Getting out and seeing people and doing things has been doing a lot to fill my cup the last couple of months.
I am now 40 years old. A “geriatric millennial,” as a social scientist so rudely coined several years ago. As a logophile, I enjoy the inherent opposition of the words “geriatric” and “millennial” being placed together. I also like the phrase because so many millennials hate it, and, honestly, that makes me want to embrace it even more.
So far, I’m enjoying my forties, even if I don’t feel 40. I’m not talking about in a physical sense, though I guess I don’t feel 40 in that respect either, my gray hair notwithstanding. What I mean is that I don’t feel existentially 40. A 40-year-old, in my mind, is someone who has their shit together. When I think of this person, I picture my parents at my age: a house, 1.5 kids (my sister counts as the 0.5), confident, secure. AKA, “grown-ups.” Whereas I, on the other hand, barely feel like a functioning adult most of the time. I’m more a person who is still desperately trying to identify and collect his shit, which makes me a few steps removed from being one who worries about keeping said shit together (okay, I may be taking this shit analogy too far).
What’s interesting to me is that… none of this really bothers me too much. Sure, despite “no worries” being my default catchphrase, I have plenty of worries. But it all seems doable, surmountable. I’ll get there, I just need a few more things to align. Maybe it’s because I take some solace in knowing that, statistically speaking, there is probably still plenty of runway in front me. All I need to do is keep moving forward.
A birthday gift I received: my own brand of wine.