#84 Birth. Coffee. Death.
Reflections on being 36
Today is my birthday, which either means I’m another year closer to the grave, or I’m an ace at keeping myself alive.
I’m a glass-half-full guy myself — sometimes, anyway.
In the slow crawl toward middle age, the easy road would be to look back on my college and travel days — the decade of debauchery and irresponsibility that was my 20s — and pine for the days of yore.
But, you know, wild oats were sown. I’ve been that guy. Now I’m this guy — the one with a wife and kids and a job I don’t hate. Still, I feel like life is sometimes one big hamster wheel, and I’m just yawning through it until I can get that next cup of coffee.
Life has to be about more than the next caffeine fix. Unfinished business abounds. Should I get a tattoo? Maybe. Should I write a YA novel and make that J.K. Rowling paper? Hell yes. Trans-Siberian Railway? Top of the list.
Point is, I have to take the hard road and think about the boxes I haven’t checked. All that other stuff has a line through it. Done. Finished.
Also, I have to keep running — if not to complete a marathon, then at least to be in good enough health to bank another 36 years.
