When I was in my mid-late teens, I lived in a group home. When I found out that the youngest staff member was 24, I declared that 23 was when middle-age starts. I’m not sure if this was because most teenagers are dicks or if it was just me. Maybe both.
I didn’t really think that 23 was middle-age but that is the age when I started getting grey hair. If you’re thinking about my karmic burden, you’re not the first.
30 came and went for me and I didn’t really care. Shortly afterward though, my friend Ken turned 30 so I wrote a poem for him. The refrain of the poem was “Fuck are you old”.
When I turned 40, I was starting to feel uncomfortable about aging. I remember going over to ask some coworkers about how they dealt with it. Before I got a chance to say anything, I realized that they were wailing and sobbing about turning 45. I didn’t bother.
Now that I’m in my mid-fifties, I’m at the age that my grandad was when I knew him. I always thought that he knew what was going on and that when I was his age, I’d know what was going on too.