Wednesday, July 26, 2006
39 and counting
Actually, they’re all wrong. Life actually begins at 39. From that day onwards nobody is in the slightest bit interested in how old you really are, just how old you’re going to be next. From the birthday cards proclaiming how “next it’s the BIG 4-0!” or “not long till the biggie” to how everyone will point out to you how you are actually now in your fortieth year, the life of being forty has already started.
It’s no wonder we all get quite so worked up about this stuff. We start planning our 40th parties month’s in advance, everyone else wants to know what your plans are. Everyone wants to know if they can give you the bumps in two stages as they’ll all be quite tired with such a large number to get through. No longer is a few beers down the pub with a couple of cheese and pickle ok; it has to be a trip to New York (guilty as charged) or Venice (best mate and missus) or Bungee Jumping off the top of Eiffel Tower (no one I know, but you get my drift). It’s all a load of old bollocks really. When I think of the ton of money I spent celebrating the worst age in history I could have had a nice little nest egg put aside for my retirement, my pipe and slippers fund if you will. The problem is of course, that the beige Rover, trilby hat and looking after the grandkids whist smelling vaguely of pipe tobacco and last nights beer isn’t really or me. I’m shaving my head, donning my rucksack and heading out into the big wide world out there to have all the adventures I seemed to miss out on in my youth. No knitted cardigans or one-size fits all form the Daily mail for me. Just once I’ve paid off the mortgage of course…..
It’s no wonder we all get quite so worked up about this stuff. We start planning our 40th parties month’s in advance, everyone else wants to know what your plans are. Everyone wants to know if they can give you the bumps in two stages as they’ll all be quite tired with such a large number to get through. No longer is a few beers down the pub with a couple of cheese and pickle ok; it has to be a trip to New York (guilty as charged) or Venice (best mate and missus) or Bungee Jumping off the top of Eiffel Tower (no one I know, but you get my drift). It’s all a load of old bollocks really. When I think of the ton of money I spent celebrating the worst age in history I could have had a nice little nest egg put aside for my retirement, my pipe and slippers fund if you will. The problem is of course, that the beige Rover, trilby hat and looking after the grandkids whist smelling vaguely of pipe tobacco and last nights beer isn’t really or me. I’m shaving my head, donning my rucksack and heading out into the big wide world out there to have all the adventures I seemed to miss out on in my youth. No knitted cardigans or one-size fits all form the Daily mail for me. Just once I’ve paid off the mortgage of course…..
# posted by Bucko! @ 3:12 AM 
