Today I am 49 years old.
I’m not the type to make a big deal out of age. This is mostly because I’ve observed that the people who do so waste a lot of time doing so. They also tend to be the sort who never really do anything worthwhile in the world, focusing more on themselves than those around them. I’ve never noticed an obsession with age, and remaining whatever age we arbitrarily decide is young enough, to be a benefit.
Nor do I think being older is automatically better than being younger. Old people are just as capable of being asinine jerks as young people, stupidity knows no age boundary. I have no more respect for older people than for younger. Most of my friends these days are as young as my oldest children and a lot of them are wiser than old people I know.
However, for some reason my mind has decided that 50 carries some sort of significance. I’ve no idea what that significance is, so I’ve decided to explore that concept by writing about it.