14,965 Days
Me on my tenth birthday. Thirty-one years ago. 14,965 Days That’s how many days I’ve been alive, so far. I was born 41 years ago; it doesn’t feel like it. It never feels like I’m the age I’m “supposed” to be. That doesn’t mean that I haven’t matured or learned things along the way. It just means that I’m not “acting my age,” so to speak. That means I’m not doing the stereotypical things a person my age would do. I’m not sure what a 41-year-old is supposed to do. Look at investment portfolios, have champagne with supermodels off the bonnet of a Mercedes? Is that what I’m supposed to be doing? Double points if the model is named Mercedes and has rack and pinion steering. Fuel injection is a given. You are as old as you are made to believe you are. I’ve talked about this numerous times that being 40-something doesn’t mean you’re “over the hill.” I thank God, Cthulhu, numerous deities, and anyone with good taste that I wasn’t given black lollipops on my 40 th