On Birthdays
I woke up to the beginning of a new decade. My fourth. That makes me forty years old. There I said it: I’m fucking forty! And happy, if not the slightest bit nostalgic for what was the most delightfully surprising decade of my life. The fact that someone can wake up on opposite ends of ten years and not recognize most of what they see in the mirror says as much about the simple act of aging as it does about the phenomenon of personal transformation. We don’t notice it daily, but birthdays let us know that things - time, perception, and even our sense of style - are constantly shifting.
Falling in love, getting married, finding meaning in work, adopting a dog, traveling around the world, and finally finding the perfect pair of black jeans: how am I going to top all of that? I’ve got a decade ahead to give it my best shot.