It’s my 43rd birthday today. I don’t feel 43. I feel, I don’t know, like I’m in my 30s or something. For a long time I felt more like I was in my 20s, which were long past; I don’t anymore, but I can’t quite put my finger on what the difference is. Of course , I’m not sure what 43 feels like, exactly, if this isn’t it.
It occurs to me that you can’t really know what your future ages will be like. You can’t predict based on other people’s experience. My parents’ lives at 43 were so different from mine. They had teenage children; their working lives were different. The society they were living in was utterly different. Undoubtedly their lives at 43 were as far removed from their parents’ lives at 43 as mine is from theirs.
When I was a teen I couldn’t even conceive of my 40s. They were just too far away. They were a meaningless set of numbers, far too abstract to worry about. Now suddenly all that time has passed and here I am. I begin to worry: Will my 70s shoot toward me at this rate? What if I get old and never manage to accomplish the things I want to?
Which means it’s time to stop futzing around online and start writing.