A couple of days ago I had a birthday. I never make a fuss about these things any more – it’s just another day, after all – but in societal terms, this is quite a big one, a decade flipping over. When I was young, the age I’ve now reached was old. Now, they say, it’s the new 40.
The truth, I realise, is that I don’t feel any age at all. Or, rather, I feel all the ages I’ve been. My body knows it’s older, as it showed me when I tried to play softball last Monday for the first time in 20 years and tore up an Achilles tendon. But my mind. That’s still young, and it’s refusing to grow up. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, and more fulfilled. Why wouldn’t I be? However tenuous it is, I’m making a living from my writing. The dream I’ve always had of my novels being published is a reality. I’m having a ball.
Okay, I never did make the professional musician ambition. But I played in bar bands, I played solo in front of audiences and was paid for it. It wasn’t the big time, but damn, it was fun. I don’t indulge in the excesses I used to enjoy, but I don’t miss them.
I don’t regret what I’ve done, not a minute of it. There are times I’ve been stupid, been thoughtless and hurtful. I apologise for those, but each action, each move, has brought me to where I am no, so regrets are pointless.
And really, I don’t care what age I am, as long as I’m happy. I have a few good friends, good love, and the joy of a wonderful son.
One thing I do know with certainty is that I’ll never grow old. My body might argue the point more and more as every year passes. But my mind is made up. Nuh uh. Not me. When I’m 80, I’ll still be 20, 30, 40 – and even the new 40 – inside.