Lordy
I feel solid in the world, heavy, massive in the sense that I exert a gravitational pull on people and objects around me. When I was young I orbited and bounced off things; now the world comes to me in many ways.
I turned 40 last week.
The occasion came and went with a little more fanfare than I typically engage in:
Well-wishes and good-natured jokes from family. Close friends gathered in an outdoor beer garden outside a brewery. Thoughtful presents of books and coffee and whiskey. My first sip of beer since the start of Sober October (which ran into No Booze November, and a largely Dry December). A cookie cake. Loud talk and boisterous arguments. Stories from the good old days and complaints about the world today.
It was nice.
I am not a particularly vain man. The thought of getting older doesn't really bother me. There are times I miss the vigor of youth - when I could recover from both exercise and excess much more quickly and thoroughly. There are also times I look in the mirror and have trouble recognizing the man staring back, a man whose salt won the war against the pepper in his hair years ago and whose teeth seem a little yellower than I know mine to be. But I don't feel this with the same existential despair I've heard of some people going through as they leave their 30s behind.
I wouldn't trade the extra assuredness with which I move through the world compared to when I was a young man for anything. Sure, my body grinds down a little easier, but I know myself so much better. I feel solid in the world, heavy, massive in the sense that I exert a gravitational pull on people and objects around me. When I was young I orbited and bounced off things; now the world comes to me in many ways.
This age suits me.