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the countdown

the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-seven years and one million words

It occurred to me this weekend that I'm now only eighteen months out from turning forty. When I was younger, it seemed so distant, and now it's here.

As a teenager, I lived in a place where people would buy their friends lawn signs covered in balloons that read 'lordy lordy, look who's forty' and so on. I can recall thinking that forty used to seem such an in-between age, no longer young and not yet old. That hasn't really changed. When talking to my parents, I don't get a sense from either of them of their being particularly 'old', and I don't feel that I wear forty in a particularly, shall we say, 'mature' way.

And yet it's time to recognize that a lot of my past activities are beyond me. And that the shortness of breath I've been experiencing while hauling my son up the hill on my bike isn't just a passing thing. The varicose veins, the grooves in my face, the neck that's no longer so supple. Yup, I've rounded the curve somewhere.

But it's good. I enjoy being who I am, now. I think a part of me has always been middle-aged and I think actually being here suits me. I like what I've done with my life, and I'm pleased with the way I've been meeting the real challenges before me. I've married well, I'm learning a new culture and language, I've got a great kid and am hopefully pulling my weight with raising him. Trying to make a business idea into reality is certainly something I wasn't tackling five or ten or twenty years ago.

And it's the same with my friends. I see them doing good things and I am glad for them and for their company.

Yeah, I think forty will be welcome.