I said to my wife that I haven’t blogged for a while and felt the urge to share something but wasn’t sure what.
‘Have you blogged about being 40?’ she asked.
Oh, so now we really get to it. So this is what matters is it? I’m 40. Well, OK, so what? In the famous words of Alfred E Newman …. ‘What, me worry?’
You know, I’m not sure what the fuss is all about, but there is something deep down – something dark and irrepressible – that’s telling me I should feel worried/guilty/afraid/despondent/ashamed about being 40. So, you know, I did what any modern guy would do (well, any modern guy in his 40’s). I googled ‘Being 40’. And what I got was a lot of jokes about being 40, humorous ways to persuade yourself it’s not all bad (fewer brain cells to manage etc.), a lot of stuff about people coming to terms with being 40 (Mariah is 40, you know – like I care), and people telling you that 40 is the new 20 (which it isn’t, because 20 is the new 20).
Well, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. 40 is only a day older than 39 if you really think about it. That’s all. It doesn’t slam you in the face with grey hair and aching muscles and creaking joints. You’re not 20 one moment and 40 the next. You have plenty of time to prepare yourself. It eases upon you, gently, like it’s your friend. But I do sometimes find myself wondering what people see when they look at me. Have you ever wondered that? (What people think of you, not me; don’t be clever). I mean, I just see me. But do they see an old bloke?
My wife would say, ‘Probably.’
I shrug my shoulders and turn away. What, me worry?