just a tic on the odometer

Just hit 40 on the odometer over the weekend. It's one of those forced-march kind of things if you're lucky enough to survive on this piece of dirt - we age, therefore, we accumulate. I look in the mirror and see wrinkles and subcutaneous fat that I don't recall accumulating; it's hard to miss the lack of hair on my head, too, or the white hairs that are starting to creep over the beard I've grown.

Idunno, these things don't stare back at me and scream "Methusaleh," they simply just exist. Like the phantom pains in my back some mornings or the tightness I'll feel in my fingers when it's cold. I keep thinking that 40 does not feel that much different than 35, or 30, or 21, or 16. The same lame thoughts rattle around in my mind in very much the same addled manner that they did before. I possess no wisdom on account of the miles I've travelled (excepting that I will advise anyone listening not to get a degree in creative writing, embrace technology - it's embracing the world, duh).

I can look back and tick off the vast number of mistakes that I've made, and if you were interested in listening I'd tell you all of them. But we both know that's boring stuff, another guy musing on his failings. I've had some successes, too; but - again - that's another blunt object with which to bludgeon your conscious mind to sleep.

They tell us that reaching 40 is a milestone and that it's important, somehow. But in reality it's simply a number on the way, just like your car hitting 100,000 on its' odometer. Sh*t, the car doesn't mind, the number only has meaning for the driver. Much is made of the "mid-life crisis" that supposedly hits men around my age - but if I can be frank I think it only applies to men much more wealthy than I. There's no convertible Corvette in my future, no plastic surgery or trips to those skanky tanning salons, and the idea of a trophy wife is only something I say in irony. No, thanks.

A few weeks ago I was huffing and puffing away at the gym and Pat Robertson was on his "700 Club" explaining that he wanted to live to be 100 years old and giving viewers his diet plan, at least for breakfast. It was a surprisingly amusing piece, he advocates eating whole grains with nuts and berries and a touch of maple syrup "so it tastes good." I don't know how long I've got, and don't care if I see 100 or not, but I know I'm not ready to go yet. I've got too much left to do.

Ah, but that raises the specter of "the bucket list," does it not? Life is the best page-turner ever written, and it gets written by the minute. I've got words to try and weave together - maybe they'll be good enough to publish and maybe not. I've got kids to raise - maybe they'll all be scions of industry and maybe not. I still haven't surfed well. I haven't travelled nearly enough. I haven't kept up with friends as much as I'd like to. "So much to do, and so little time."

What have I accumulated on the road so far? People will disappoint the hell out of you and you'll disappoint the hell out of them. Money won't solve any of your existential problems. The best laid plans are often riddled with holes you never thought were there. These things are on 1,000 different bumper stickers and "inspirational" office pictures. Bullsh*t, really.

Boil it down to this: show as much love as you can, in whatever way you're comfortable showing it. Explain yourself. Apologize sincerely and often. Forgive liberally, and forget.

Make time for others, we ain't here forever y'know.