41 is the New 27

You hear 40 year-olds spout the supposed aphorism “40 is the new 30” more times than a hot yoga mom utters Namaste during her morning cleansing ritual.  It’s on the tip of every quadragenarian’s tongue these days, as if saying it over and again will finally prove that we’re not really our parents’ 40—it’s a whole new ballgame, we’ll tell you.  Since Americans are now living to almost 80, I suppose this is in some ways true.  We’re still, theoretically, in the middle of our lives, and not yet on the decided downswing.  With advances in medicine, we can now continue to have sex well into our 70s.  So things are looking up.  Quite literally.

Having just today ventured past the point where I can no longer say, “but I just turned 40”, I thought it only appropriate to reflect on what this seemingly non-descript birthday signifies in the grand scheme of things.  Should I be more alarmed at my apparent lack of progress in settling down, finding a life mate, attaining a semblance of financial security, or just growing up in general?  Perhaps.  Am I overly-alarmed to the point where I’m having an identity crisis that is forcing me to re-evaluate how I got to this point?  Not so much.  That would require an ability to criticize my past judgements and decisions of which I am wholly incapable.  But I am, as always, more than willing to laugh at myself and my many shortcomings and bring you along for the ride.

Birthdays, like the new year (whether you go by the Gregorian or Jewish calendar), are times of natural reflection.  So I thought I’d reflect on five compromises that I’m increasingly willing to make (given my ever-advancing age) and five on which I’m simply not prepared to budge.  The time-worn battle of age vs. immaturity.  It’s like my high school cross-country coach once told me:

“Billy,” he said, “you’re only young once…but you can be immature forever.”[1]  Words to live by Mr. D.  And I have.

In that vein, I offer you the following:

5 Compromises I Am Willing to Make…and 5 I’m Not

1. I am willing to get up earlier on the weekends. I’ve found that, much to my surprise, getting up early on a Saturday or Sunday morning isn’t necessarily terrible (unless it involves brunch—brunch is terrible and anyone who tells you differently is trying to pump you full of watered-down mimosas).  I actually get shit done before noon.  I go swimming, go shopping (but not at farmer’s markets—not nearly that domesticated), catch up on my guilty-pleasure TV shows, and maybe even pen a penchant blog.  I play in a soccer league.  These are all things I would have been incapable of even five years ago.  It’s progress.

I am not, however, willing to be an adult when I wake up.  On Saturday and Sunday mornings, I reserve the right to eat overly-sugared cereals and watch cartoons.  I can still kill a box of Lucky Charms or Cap’n Crunch (with Crunchberries) with the best of them.[2]  My aunt used to call my brothers and me the “cereal killers” because we’d visit them in Norfolk, Virginia where we would routinely plow through boxes of these tasty, forbidden treats.  My mom, dear woman that she is, refused to stock these unhealthy items, preferring to buy mundane dreck like Cheerios, Wheaties, and, when it got a little crazy up in there, Kix!  They all sucked.  I think this is why, to this day, I insist on starting each weekend morning with a heaping bowl of proverbial Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs.  As in the halcyon days of my youth, I plop myself on the couch and watch cartoons (Southpark, Star Wars Rebels or maybe back episodes of Star Wars The Clone Wars, just to mix it up) and laugh/snort as milk rolls down my chin.  Much like Popeye, I yam who I yam.

2. I am willing treat my body better. In my mid-20s, I realized that I had to give up meals that consisted entirely of Hot Pockets and Eggo waffles if I wanted to look a certain way.  In my early 30s, I observed that cutting out soda and desserts were a necessary condition to keeping those 7-minute abs.  In my mid-30s, I noticed that drinking a bunch of heavy beer and dark spirits with regularity was not a good look for someone who prided himself on his girlish figure.  And in my late 30s/early 40s, it’s been all of the above and a healthier, borderline-draconian diet that has kept the body beach-ready.  It’s like Kate Moss once said, “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”.  You’re like a waifish, malnourished Buddha, Kate.  Wise words.

I am not willing to stop playing sports and taking questionable physical risks.  If I’m going to go to such lengths to keep in good shape, it shouldn’t just be an end in and of itself.  I want to continue to play in soccer leagues (even if I do pick up nagging injuries at an increasing rate, as my lunchtime colleague keeps pointing out) and pick-up basketball games.  I reserve the right to occasionally do dumb shit like jump off bridges into questionably deep bodies of water, bungee jump, or sky dive.  Why put yourself through the grind of a daily exercise regimen in the first place if you’re not willing to reap the benefits?  Now, I’m as vain as the next person—who the hell am I kidding, I’m far more vain than the next person, more so in all likelihood than any of you (except my brother, we’re probably equals in the peacock department—show off that brilliant plumage buddy!).  But there has to be a point to it all.  You gotta put to some use what the good lord gave you.

3. I am willing to party less. And I do.  Maybe this is a function of a PhD program and the concomitant poverty that accompanies it, but I don’t go out drinking every single weekend night, just because there is no hard and fast commitment to getting up at a certain time the next morning.  A few years back, I gave up drinking on school nights (even when I’m working, I still call them school nights—another sign of a perpetual student), and it’s served me really well.  You should try it sometime if you’re still in residual college mode.  Working with a hangover sucks balls.  You’re constantly trying to hide the fact that you’re bleary-eyed and unproductive and just hoping that you’re the only one who can smell the bourbon on your breath (you’re not).  Better to just lay off the sauce during the week and maybe even the occasional weekend as well.  Your body and your brain will thank you.  These are apparently things you learn in your 40s.

That does not mean that I am willing to party responsibly.  There’s something about a big night or even an impromptu session when your blood boils and you get a giddy sense of anticipation about the myriad possibilities that a night holds.  I never want to lose that barely-stifled sense of exuberance.  Why would anyone?  When a big night rolls around, I still want to have that same maniacal glint in my eye and spring in my step that my friends know all too well.  If you’ve ever been on a BBBC (October 24^th in LA this year), headed off to the Rugby 7s/Boracay/the Full Moon Party with me, attended a TCB event in Haiti, or accompanied me to a wedding/bar mitzvah/wake, you know exactly what I’m talking about.  There are always going to be things that you don’t necessarily like about yourself—this is not one of them.  My aunts and uncles have it, my brothers and cousins have it, and I have it.  Some may call it a curse.  I call it a gift.  I’m here to entertain.  And for you to make fun of the stupid shit that I’m willing to do to achieve that goal.  I think we should all strive for both.

4. I am willing to try a little harder to work on relationship Bill. I’ll try to compromise, to not be so damn stubborn, to meet people half-way.  My sister-in-law is always getting on me about dating “age-appropriate” girls (sorry, women—maybe this is part of the problem).  I’ll try Vicki—but no promises.[3]  Until such time, I will regale you with tales of my dating disasters, past and present.  Rest assured that some of these episodes are already in the works.  I will still go out on terrible dates, even going so far as to re-enter the world of app dating.  Since I sold the motorcycle and now own a car, I think my prospects are looking up in this town.

I remain unwilling to settle.  I see how badly a lot of my coupled friends want me to find someone.  And I know that it comes from a sincere and good place.  They want what’s best for me, and I truly appreciate their care and concern.  I will concede that there’s nothing better than a new relationship, filled with possibility.  But there’s also nothing worse than being in a bad relationship with no easy way out.  I choose to wait for the right time and the right girl, even if it doesn’t happen.  I can live with that.  I would (eventually) like to have the wife and the kids and all that stuff.  But not at the expense of an unhappy alliance.

5. I am willing to try to be a more positive, magnanimous person. I resolve to have less of temper, to not scream at other motorists or flick them off when they do dumb shit (most of the time).  I will do try to do more things for people while not expecting anything in return.  I’ll attempt to not be overly preachy or sanctimonious in my blogs (but I probably will be).  I’ll focus on the good and not so much the bad.

I am not now, nor will I ever be willing to quell my passions or grow up in any conventional sense.  I will still speak and write from the heart, for better or worse.  I will step up to call bullshit when it needs to be said.  But I will try to not take myself too seriously.  For every serious blog, I will offer you a ridiculous tale to make you laugh as best I can.  I promise to still do dumb stuff with alarming regularity.  I will continue to believe that it is OK to fart on someone without warning.  And that the poop emoticon is by far the funniest in the entire gallery.  Because, let’s be honest, it is.

41 is the new 27 because I still somehow don’t feel 41.  I certainly don’t feel any older today than I did yesterday or even a decade and a half ago.  I tell myself I look mostly the same (and then I look at pictures from the Switzerland days and realize that that isn’t really the case).  I still do mostly the same things, hang out with the same kind of funny, smart, irreverent people.  I still value experiences over things and would rather take a trip to a new country than buy a real couch.  When people ask me what age I would be if I could choose any age, I always default to 27.  It seems like the perfect compromise between experience and youth.  At the peak of your game physically but still wise and independent enough to take full advantage of it.  I say this despite the fact that I had more fun in my 30s than my 20s.  I made more incredible friends (many of you fine people), saw more crazy shit, and pursued more of my dreams.  Why should my 40s be any different?  Maybe 41 really is the new 27.

[1] This is the same man who, upon first meeting me, told me the following joke: “Billy, how do you dandruff off an asshole?” (proceeds to brush my shoulder).

[2] Leggo my Eggo mothafucka!!!

[3] Yoda would tell me that there is no try.