On 40
People keep reminding me that I'm turning 40. They always say it with a fiendish delight, as if playfully taunting me about imminent death. Personally, I don't get the big deal about these birthdays ending in 0—how is 40 any different than 37, or 43? But certain milestones of grinding Earth revolutions are looked upon more favorably than others, for whatever reason: standouts include 1, 16, 18, 21 (in the US), 30, 65. Don't get me wrong, I do appreciate the ritual: a casual acquaintance finds out about your birthday and inquires about what age you're turning, then they react with mock surprise, exclaiming, "Wow! You look great for [age]!" I've never been one to take a compliment well, usually brushing the observation off as inconsequential, or changing the subject by pointing something out like, "If we were still using the Julian rather than Gregorian calendar, I'd still be 39," but I'm trying a new thing now, and just saying thanks—thanks for pointing out that I am officially no longer young, and yet, somehow, neither old. "Middle age" sounds like such a grim demarcation between the optimism of early adulthood and the inevitability of decay, a point at which growth stops and isothermic entropy decreases. But, as far as I can tell, time only moves in one direction, and I'm better off just accepting it. The weird thing is, I've always been an old man at heart, precocious and always trying to differentiate myself from my age cohort; now all of a sudden, I'm impelled to stem the tide, and try to cling to this spirit of youth that has long since left me adrift in the sea of time. Forget it. "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things," and that includes the hopeless battle against time, which makes fools of us all. Forty years seemed like an impossible, immeasurable span of time when I was younger, but it went by quick. I never thought I'd live this long; now I just want to live forever.