On the occasion of turning forty-one years old, I pause for a moment in the usual parade of revelry and fun for a moment of serious contemplation and consideration.
Just fucking kidding.
I’m forty fucking one!
If there’s a reason for a fuck-festooned post, it’s any birthday after fucking forty.
There’s a certain freedom after that number. Not that last year’s supposed milestone upset me in any real way. I’ve just never been bothered by age – mine or anyone else’s. If anything, I’ve wanted to be older all my life. Granted, there are moments when I wish we were going in reverse. My body doesn’t bounce back as quickly or easily as it once did. I need sleep and rest and can’t imagine staying out much beyond midnight. I need to exercise and watch my dietary intake if I want to dwell between a 31 and 32 inch waist (I may just bite the 32 bullet and call it a day – but there are some pretty 31s that I’m not quite ready to part with.) I’ve also had to re-structure and re-focus on things that matter the most to me.
For the most part, I remain one of the luckiest fucks in the world, living a charmed and enchanted life with some of the greatest family and friends for which a guy could ever ask.
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