When I’m 55

I never think of my age that often. But when I do, especially in the last couple of years, I’m am totally, abso-freakin’-lutely gob-smacked.

I’m 55. How did that happen?

In a recent conversation with a friend of similar vintage, we discussed how old we would guess we were if our memories were wiped. I told him I would guess I was in my mid-thirties. The only concessions to my age (aside from hair color) is the occasional twinge in the back and the need for more recovery time when I miss sleep. That’s it.

But I am 55, and that number does carry some meaning for me.

It means that my time is more valuable than ever before. That means that I have less patience with people who want to sell me things and expect me to sit through a 30 minute pitch before they tell me the price (please note: if someone doesn’t want to tell you the price, the price is going to be fairly ridiculous) or with physicians and other professionals who think nothing of asking you to wait three hours past the time of your appointment..

55 means that every second I spend with my wife is precious. Same goes for other close family members. It means that when it comes to movies and TV shows and books, my choices will be made carefully.

It also means the things I put my energy into have to be important to me. I have quite a few writing projects I want to get to. When I’m not working my day job, that’s what I’m spending most of my free time on.

It’s been a pretty good 55 years. I've managed to accomplished things the 12-year-old me would never dreamed of. I only hope the next 55 are just as good.