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40 Isn’t “Over the Hill,” But Death Does Move in Next Door
And occasionally knocks on your door late at night.
It’s strange how when you’re really young — early to late teens, even 20s — the idea of being a middle-aged adult seems ridiculously remote and impossible.
Getting older is for other people. Your parents, for example, who were born ancient. Or your aunts and uncles. Or that one teacher who’s been teaching algebra since the Apollo moon missions. People to whom the rules of life apply. Not you, of course.
And then it happens. Slowly, steadily, with the inevitability of Michael Myers stalking you across the neighborhood.
For sure, some people age better than others. I remember always being told that when I turned 30, that’d be “it.” Meaning I’d suddenly develop a massive beer belly, joint and back problems, lose my hair, incur all sorts of health problems, you name it. Thirty was the “turning midnight” in the Cinderella story of aging, apparently.
As it turned out, I actually lost weight and kept it off during my 30s. I still have all my hair, with some noble grays. And with the exception of a nasty flu back in 2019, I’ve hardly had any health issues. I never even caught Covid.
