My birthday is Friday. I won’t say how old I am . . . okay you dragged it out of me. 41.
Turned 40 seemed so hip. So neat. So on the edge. All the cool kids were turning 40. 41 seems so . . . so . . . so . . . what’s the word I am looking for here . . . uneventful. There’s nothing special or glamorous about 41. You’re just a little more 40.
Girlfriend Georgia said to me yesterday morning that there is still so much potential at 41. “You could still have another baby,” she said. She was perfectly serious. Girlfriend Robyn looked at her and said, “That makes my insides clench just thinking about it.” I hate to say it friends and loved ones, but I’m with Robyn. Preschooler D exhausts me so, I cannot imagine adding another to the mix at this point, even though it is still possible. And do not even mention this conversation to Big Daddy Brent (BD). We are getting very near the point where a child of ours could have a niece or nephew who is older. Yes, we know people for whom this is true, but — well, we’re tired, that’s all there is to it.
While I was having this conversation about fertility out in the foyer, BD was over in the praise band having a conversation with the acoustic guitar player . . . an adult man . . .with three children of his own . . . who discovered Brent’s birth month and year and said, “Hey! You’re a month older than my dad!”
I’m not afraid, particularly, of getting older. I am mellowing out. I’m becoming more interesting, I think. It’s just a little less novel this year, isn’t it?