I have very little to say on this topic, actually. But here’s this:
I woke up this morning, and my first thought was not “Hey, you’re 40!” I wondered why the damn cat needs to step on my stomach so hard only at times when I really need to take a piss. Then, from somewhere deep in my sub-conscious, the Phish song “David Bowie” began rising. I heard them singing UB-40 and realized, “Hey, it’s my birthday.”
The prospect of my 40th birthday first loomed menacingly on my 36th. I thought to myself, “I’ll have to make it great! I’ll have to go to Vancouver or Amsterdam or Vegas with two or three friends, and we’ll have to rock all night.” There were other notions of self-inflation. I should buy myself a symbol of adulthood, perhaps an Armani suit. I should treat myself to something I’ve always wanted, to attend a Champions League match, or to try Peyote in the desert. If I don’t have a published book by my 40th birthday, I’ll know I’m a loser. I should get to work on that right away.
This morning I had none of those thoughts, besides my memories of them. What did I want? I hoped to get all my work done before 4:30 so that I could spend some time with the kids before they go to bed. And I found myself feeling thankful for a good home, a wonderful wife, employment, health.
That’s all. Nothing more.