When you’re young there are some ages that seem impossibly old. It’s why adults will always snicker at a kid in a movie or a book talking about their “ancient” 25-year-old teacher, or how they can’t imagine being as old as, say 32. Heck, when I discovered The Beatles in my early teens I couldn’t imagine them when they were 64, much less myself.
Then blah blah blah, dude, you’re old, and it all seems so silly and removed from reality.
As birthdays are times of reflection – we’re always celebrating the year that we have just passed, or survived, or endured – and coming this late in the calendar year I tend to find myself looking ahead. Every year of my adult life, for as long as I can recall, I’ve always found myself thinking some variation of the idea that this coming year is going to be the year. What exactly is on the horizon shifts, because it’s always built upon the years that have passed, but no matter what there is no way to predict the future beyond a general and vague hope for what is wanted, or earned, or long in coming.
It’s been a long battle against my impatient nature but I think I might have worn my impatience down with time. Now comes the good stuff.
Here’s to the second half of my century.