Boy turns forty-four

When I was a kid I spent quite a bit of time thinking about not being a kid anymore. I didn’t like being a kid. I didn’t like that I had no authority. I didn’t like not having my own house and my own car. I didn’t like the sound of my pre-pubescent voice, and I pretty much despised my boyish face.

I couldn’t wait to be an adult. Not an adult in the sense that I’d be old enough to vote. I looked forward to being old enough and accomplished enough not to need to prove myself. And yet not so much an adult that my best years were behind me, and all I had to look forward to was telling people about the glory days.

After what seemed like quite a bit of internal debate, I settled on the age of forty-four. Forty-four, I figured, was old enough to be an established, stable, respected adult. A man. A man whose value was proven, but far from tapped out.

(Plus four was my favorite number, so forty-four simply had to be the optimal age.)

And so, here I am. I turn forty-four today. It was a big deal to me then, and it’s a big deal to me now. Much more so that turning thirty or forty. This is the birthday where my boyhood dreams have either come true, or they haven’t.

And luckily, they have. Or at least I think they have. It’s impossible to know what that boy, so many years ago, would have thought of my life now. But I think he’d be pleased, even if he couldn’t understand all the choices I’ve made. (I didn’t necessarily want to get married at that age, for example, but I think he’d be willing to make an exception on that account. I also remember wanting to have a good, manly beard, but genetics conspired against me on that issue.)

There’s no way to know what that boy would have thought about how things turned out. And of course it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m a happy man. I’m happy with what I’ve accomplished with the time I’ve had, and I look forward to what’s to come.

Most of what’s to come anyway. I mean, forty-four is great, but forty-five sounds old!