Counting the wrinkles

Tomorrow I turn 41. Scary.

Well, not that scary. The older I get the less I feel like it matters how old I’m getting; which for some reason was very important when I was younger.

You try to tell a five-year-old that the difference between five and six doesn’t really matter. Or tell a 14-year-old that anywhere from 15-19 is pretty much all the same – everyone functions in two modes; embarrassed and horny, and sometimes both at once.

In the 20s though you begin to notice that age doesn’t really matter that much. That’s because you’re now old enough to do stuff. Vote, have sex, buy porn, get into pubs, get drunk, drive a vehicle, fly a plane etc. The only thing you’re not old enough to do is get a senior citizen’s card; and you’re alright with that.

Then you hit 30 and think: “Oh fuck. My life is over.” But it’s not. Because really you’re just 25 with some experience and a few decent lessons under your belt. Hell, even if you double your age you’re still only 60, and that’s not even retirement age anymore.

Having said that, a guy I once knew told me that he hit 30 and couldn’t cope. He drank solidly for a month. Every time he sobered up he thought: “Oh God, I’m 30!” and got drunk again. Eventually he got used to the idea; though he was never really happy about it, even as an angry grey-haired man in his 50s.

At 35 you’re starting to admit that your 20s are really in the past. But take heart, you’re not 40 yet!

Then you are. And you wake up and you’re 40 and you think: “Well, I don’t feel any different to how I felt yesterday. I guess 40 can’t be all bad.”

This is how I feel now: a year on from the 40 tragedy – when my presents no longer consisted of bourbon, joke porn and heavy metal, but rather a succession of book vouchers.

I’m 41. Well, no, not till sometime tomorrow. Shit, I’m still 40, which is practically in my 30s, which is near as fuck to 28, right? Tomorrow I suspect I will have only one thing on my mind: Thank God for bourbon.