It’s after 1 a.m. on a Saturday night/Sunday morning and while I’m ostensibly doing work for a class I’m taking, I can’t stop thinking about a phone call I received today. The bottle of wine I just finished is helping with the deep reflection, just FYI.
Last month, I turned 38-years-old.
I don’t immediately think of myself as a man in my late-thirties. I’m still struggling with the idea that I’m an actual adult.
It’s not that I feel 18 or 22, but like almost everyone else, I think of myself as some vague, younger version of me. Age has a way of sneaking up on you like that. It’s like growth spurt or a change in your weight. You live with it every day, so it’s gradual to you, but then you walk by a mirror and a different person is looking back at you. I still can’t believe I’ve been married for seven-and-a-half years and have been in the same relationship for thirteen years. I still think of the early ’00s as just a few years ago.
As Gertrude Stein once said, “We are always the same age inside.”
As I received well-wishes on my birthday, I couldn’t help thinking about City Slickers.