I swear it feels just the same…

I don’t generally get hung up on milestone birthdays. It didn’t me bother when I turned 30 or 40. I’m pleased to report that turning 50 hasn’t sent me into a melancholy tailspin of nostalgic pining for years gone by. I just feel the same. I know whenever I go to my ABM and happen to look up at the security monitor and I silently lament the bald spot with expansionist tendencies stretching ever wider over the back of my head. I look away fast. But that’s about it. Other than that, the only real physical manifestation of age that I can discern is the ever-lengthening recovery time required after my ball hockey night. The morning after it feels as if I’m inhabiting someone else’s body. Fortunately, six days later, when it’s time to strap on the shin pads and do it all over again, I’m nearly ready to go.

My one regret is that I didn’t start this novel writing thing a little earlier in life. But in general, I’m a newly-minted yet still happy 50 year-old.