Hard to believe that it’s been a decade since I penned the now-legendary (at least in the circles of my modest readership) “41 is the New 27” manifesto, and it feels like the time is ripe for a sequel.  I know that you’ve all been waiting with bated breath.  Does this exercise remain self-indulgent?  Absolutely.  Will my brothers invariably read this blog post at an LA coffee shop while openly mocking me?  Almost certainly.

Birthdays are both milestones and reflection points.  Or in the Gelfeld household, excuses for excess—as any of you who have accompanied me on a BBBC well know.  But I thought it appropriate to look back on the last ten years while looking ahead to the next ten.  By the time the next iteration of this blog rolls around ten years hence, I’ll be flashing my AARP card for movie discounts and tossing Viagra into my protein shakes like Skittles (taste the rainbow people!).

So what major epiphanies occurred to me over the course of my forties?  A few as it turns out.  Here are some of the major takeaways (or enduring lessons) from my forties:

  1. My life will never look like everyone else’s.  And that’s OK.

    I suppose if I was going to conform to the conventional settle-down-and-have-a-family trope, I would have done so by now.  Many of my more mature and settled friends found love and contentedness in the family experience over the last decade.  My brother finally found domestic bliss, and he wears it so very well.  Though we don’t go out and destroy DC anymore on my visits home, playing with my adorable niece and seeing her grow and learn is an altogether different joy, engendering an altered kind of anticipation for my semi-annual visits home.

    But this kind of domestic stability and tranquility continues to elude me.  Do I want the whole wife and kids deal?  A part of me really does.  But an equal part of me also wonders if I’m just too selfish and stubborn to commit to that lifestyle.  I love my life as it currently is—could it be better with the right partner?  For sure.  Could it be much worse with the wrong one?  Most definitely.  For all my friends with happy domestic situations, I’ve seen plenty go astray, as have we all.  So you’ll forgive me if I remain a bit gun-shy.

    I know enough to know that if I ever do take this admirable but petrifying plunge that it has to be, first and foremost, with the right person and, secondarily, for the right reasons, rather than conforming to a societal norm that doesn’t suit.  That person would have to embrace a similarly unconventional life.  And be willing to tolerate and hopefully share some of my more idiosyncratic or frankly nonconformist attitudes on life.  That might mean picking up and moving every few years.  It might mean adventures in babysitting in Southeast Asia or Africa.  Or taking questionable leaps of faith both professionally and personally in the name of geographic and personal exploration.  But I realize that I would have to compromise as well and be more flexible and understanding of my partner’s wants, hopes, and desires.  And if that person doesn’t come around, I have to be OK with the single life.

    It’s not always easy to accept that others have found their ideal partner, or at least someone with whom they can build a happy life together.  And that you’re at home alone again, without anyone having chosen you.  Yet better to have decided that this life is totally fine and ultimately fulfilling than trying to hammer a person who’s square peg into the round hole of your life.

    2. I will always value experiences over things.  Relatedly, I really missed random travel during the pandemic.

      Would I rather be riding a dirt bike through unpaved roads in Laos, looking for a mountain to climb with the new Thai friend I just met at my hostel (should I still even be staying in hostels???) or would I rather be driving a vintage Porsche or a classic Mustang (my dream cars) through the mean streets of Mexico City?  My 2016 Ford Focus should put that question to rest.

      Yes, I will continue to choose adventures over possessions every day of the week and twice on Sundays!  Will I ever own property or a house?  Seems unlikely.  Should I put more into my Roth IRA?  Undoubtedly (thanks Mom & Dad for supplanting my meager contributions).  Do I care about the quality of my furniture or the Michelin stars of the restaurants in which I eat?  I do not.  I am perfectly happy to eat Kraft mac & cheese and the same boring-ass sandwich with baby carrots (just don’t skimp on the ranch) night after night if it means that I have enough scratch to hit the road for an entire month every summer.

      The past two summers, when I resumed my annual tradition of meandering summer travels, highlighted by a frenzied itinerary in which I cram way too many countries into way too short a period of time (much like this sentence or a John Popper-penned Blues Traveler song) reminded me of just one of the many things that the pandemic stole from us: the pure joy and exhilaration of random travel.  Last summer, it was traversing the southern coast of Turkey, meeting a cool-as-hell Moroccan woman whose birthday we celebrated by day drinking on a cruise through the Mediterranean, and then trying to track down her lost purse (we finally did).  It was watching the Euro Cup finals in Chisinau, Moldova and rooting on the English as they failed in yet another heartbreaking final.  This summer, it was reuniting with good friends in Tokyo and Osaka and reconnecting with a good buddy and meeting his beautiful family in Vietnam.  Or meeting a lovely, charming Kazakh woman in Hoi Ahn.  The sobering Killing Fields in Cambodia or the delicious hawker stalls in Singapore.  I adore these varied assaults on the senses, both perturbing and intoxicating.  Reveling in it all, feeling exhausted by the end and more than ready for my own bed, yet knowing I’d inevitably want to do it all over again next summer in a different locale, blending old friends with new places and experiences.

      3. I am going to be this immature forever.

      I kind of assumed at some point that I’d grow out of the Star Wars fandom.  The Lucky Charms and Cap’n Crunch Saturday mornings (my mom always told me my palate would mature—she was wrong).  Stealthily tip-toeing into my brothers’ rooms while they’re sleeping during Christmas vacation, just to startle them awake as I dig my taut fingers into their haunches and breathe my delightful morning breath on them (they LOOOOOVE that).

      Nope.  All of these remain just a few of my favorite things.

      I still get giddy playing a fun prank. Or engaging in an inappropriate giggle loop at an inopportune time (funerals, brisses, board meetings—who I am I kidding, I’ve never been to, nor will attend a board meeting).  Or at the prospect of a wild celebration (this is why it’s good to still have friends in their 20s and 30s for the bachelor parties and weddings).

      I still love it all.  You can find me skipping down the streets of Mexico City to a random tune.  Or dancing badly to Taylor Swift, the Black Eyed Peas, or Bad Bunny at a club, or even better rocking out to The Beatles, The Cure, or The Pixies at a rock bar.  Should this be the behavior of a 51-year-old?  I don’t know.  Perhaps not.  But an overgrown 35-year-old?  Maybe.

      So what will the next ten years look like?  Will it bring family?  Will it bring a measure of stability and greater predictability?  Everyone keeps asking me where next, if only because I’ve never stayed in any one place longer than three years in my adult life.  This January will mark three years in Mexico City, and I have to admit that I’m pretty content.  But the horizon always beckons.

      Here are a few questions that linger large over the next decade:

      1. Is it now or never?

      Do I really want to be a 60-year-old dad?  People asking if that’s their dad or grandfather (which may already be inevitable if I sire children at this age).  If that’s not to be, it has to happen this decade.  If I can do it my way, yes.  Or am I just being wholly unrealistic and uncompromising?  I guess this decade will tell.

      2. Will I still feel this good in ten years?

      I’ve had the incredible fortune to enjoy good health and feel great, always able to do the things I love, like pack up and travel at a moment’s notice or play pick-up basketball, tennis, or ultimate frisbee with my friends every weekend.  As my dad likes to say, “kanna hora” (Yiddish for knock on wood).  But that can’t continue indefinitely.  As the Onion Knight said in Game of Thrones, “nothing fucks you harder than time.”

      Should a 51-year-old really obsess over six-pack abs, or is that increasing evidence that I have way too much time on my hands that could be dedicated to more productive pastimes?  Should I prioritize my dwindling sperm count to put those swimmers to good use, or should I use these remaining years of full health and mobility to get closer to my dream of visiting every country on Earth (106 down, 99 to go—at least by the UN’s official count)?  A family and kids would definitely put a dent in those plans but perhaps afford other joys and indelible experiences akin to or even better than my continued global misadventures.

      3. Are kids the last great unknown experience?

      If I keep coming back to this point, it’s because it’s the big, lingering question that sticks in my brain.  I love my niece to pieces.  I love my friends’ kids.  I just don’t know if I can or should give up what I have to get that.  I’m great with other people’s kids, but is that because I can give them back in a couple of hours?  Am I fundamentally too selfish for that?  I still don’t know.  But I imagine the next decade will likely be telling.

      For now, as always, I promise to do my utmost to entertain.  And baffle.  And madden.  And if we spirits have offended…well then too fucking bad.  Just kidding, I want to thank you all for sticking in there, supporting me, and keeping me honest.  If I don’t feel lonely living alone after all these years (and I rarely do), it’s because I have so much love in my life.  Because my family texts me every day.  And we attend music festivals together every year.  Because my brother watches movies with me on FaceTime every other week.  And because my friends shower me with unconditional love, whether I deserve it or not.  Which, to be honest, is really the best birthday present any 35-year-old could ask for.