Here’s the deal. Next week I turn forty.
I know what you’re thinking, “Now that I’ve got Makya’s birthdate, I’m one step closer to assuming his identity.” Well, I’ve got news for you – some guy stole my identity last year and after two weeks he called me up apologizing, telling me that he couldn’t keep up with the debt payments, that he was unable to lose weight, and that he was now haunted by memories of high school where he was routinely trounced at tetherball by an eight year old girl, and begged me to take my identity back. So go ahead, try my identity on for awhile, I don’t mind. Maybe you can make something happen with it.
But this post is not about identity theft, it’s about milestones. This is my 200th blog post. When I first started this blog, each and every one of my family members called me up and said that I’d never write more than three or four posts, that no one would read or comment on a blog written by a dirty Scotsman, and that I was a general disappointment. That’s not true. My family has always been supportive of everything I’ve done. Maybe too supportive. I think maybe my mom or dad should have tried to talk me out of taking out that two hundred thousand dollar loan to open a museum dedicated to Jewish stars of the NBA. Seriously. What was I thinking?
But this isn’t a blog post about basketball or how many blog posts I’ve written, it’s about the fact that I turn forty next week.
Many people ask me the secrets of turning forty, and how I’ve managed to do it without even really trying. I’m not here to brag, but I’ve put virtually no effort into turning forty and yet it’s about to happen. So, for all you kids out there who aspire to some day follow in my footsteps and turn forty just like cool Uncle Makya, here’s how you do it.
How To Turn Forty Without Really Trying:
(1) Be born.
It’s just that simple. This ridiculously convenient two step plan is the secret to all of my forty-turning success. But I must warn you as well, there are some downsides to turning forty.
Firstly, there’s the ear hair. This has become a serious issue for me. I understand that we all have small ear hairs that help to keep the ear canal free of particles, sure, I can live with that. But what exactly is the advantage of the ear pony tail my body is apparently attempting to grow? My ear hairs come out thick and strong, like a substantial New England stew, or the undergrowth in the Siberian tundra – and they don’t go down without a fight. When I try and pull them out with a pair of tweezers, they often pull back.
There’s also the steep mental decline. About once a week now I will start a sentence and halfway through realize that I’ve no idea how it’s going to end. My own statements have become mystery novellas. Oh boy, I can’t wait to hear what happens next…should not be one’s inner monologue in relation to one’s own train of thought. I feel quite strongly that upon beginning a sentence I have some clear intent, but in the ensuing two to three seconds my brain goes down for a quick nap leaving me to look quite the fool. Oh, brain, remember our twenties when you were spry and clever and active for more than twenty minutes at a time?
And then there’s the ridiculous injuries. I hurt my wrist a few days ago. You know what I was doing? Sitting in bed watching TV. Was I changing the channel? Was I rearranging a pillow? No. My wrist was doing exactly nothing. It was sitting still between my arm and hand, as usual, when I experienced a sudden shooting pain. I shouldn’t be able to hurt myself doing nothing. I’ve dedicated my life to not going rock climbing, parasailing, or bungee jumping because I knew full well that these activities would end in an assortment of embarrassments and pains. But injuring myself through inactivity is even more embarrassing. My back hurts. Why? Because it exists.
Of course, turning forty should not be as big a deal as we make of it. It is, after all, the end of our fortieth year and the beginning or our forty-first that we are marking with this occasion. (Just as our first birthday marks the very last day of our first year of life, and the beginning or our second year). So, really, I’ve sort of been forty this whole past year…and you’re kind of a year older than you think you are. You’re welcome.
That’s not to suggest that I’m not accepting gifts. This is a big deal. My two hundredth blog post and fortieth birthday all in the same week. Come on people, let’s pony up. By which I mean – I want a pony for my birthday. Or cash. Yeah, cash is a lot better than a pony. Oooh, what about a pony full of cash? Like a young horse taxidermied and stuffed with money. That’s the best of both worlds. I could look at the pony and say something like, “Cool, I have a pony.” But then I could also reach down the pony’s throat and pull out wads of hundred dollar bills. Yeah, I want a money pony for my birthday.
Either that or a much better pair of tweezers.