A 365-Day Difference
I recently celebrated a relative’s birthday and realized the birthday is proof that people are never fully content.
When you are 3, you can’t wait to be four. So much that you proclaim with five fingers, “I’m 3. And a half!”
When you are 12, you can’t wait for 13 and to be referred to as an official “teenager.”
When you finally turn 13, you have 16 in sight and when you turn 16 nothing compares to the anticipation of being 18.
19 and 20-year-olds are miserable until they turn 21. But then 21 quickly loses its thrill because it’s all legal now; the thrill is gone.
25 brings you that bullshit, “car insurance discount” and with it, a sense of “I’m getting a bit old to be blacking out still” guilt.
30 is uber-depressing. You lie about 40. You lie about 50. You admit 60 only because it’s close to retirement and then you hit a 25-year grace period where you blend in with all the geezers and no one really knows how old you are. You drive a Cadillac, join a golf league, play cards, take 3 naps a day and everyone looks the same. You don’t even remember your age, so your not so discontent here.
You finally hit your 90s and all you can think about is not kicking it before you hit the highly regarded 100 years old.
It’s the greener grass cycle of life: You go from wanting to be older to younger to older again. And the other cycle that accompanies age? You can’t stop pissing your pants, finally stop pissing your pants only to return to the can’t stop pissing my pants stage yet again.
Age is cruel.
