On being 45
I turn 45 years old today.
That feels like an age that, when I was a kid, felt impossibly old. An age that my Dad and his friends were — where you complained about your back, your boss and the weather.
I never dreamed that one day 45 would be me. Not because I lived hard and fast and didn’t think I would make it to 45. I didn’t — and don’t — live hard and fast. (More like slow and second-guessing!) It was just that being 45 years old seemed so far in the future that I wasn’t able to cast my mind forward that far. I could imagine being in college or even being in my 20s. But mid-40s? Never.
And yet, time passes. Twenty turns to 40. And you go from being the ambitious youngest person in the office to the guy making references to Max Headroom that your youthful colleagues don’t get. (Maybe just me?)
For the last 10 years, those years have sped by without me giving them much thought. My sons were born and started growing up. I was working non-stop — trying to “make it.” There wasn’t much time to just sit in the moment. And I never liked doing that anyway — too much time to think was a sure recipe for my anxiety to surge as I looked out into the abyss and wondered what the actual hell I was doing here.
This year has been different. A lot different. I stopped going into work on Friday March 13. My father died on May 8. My mom moved from Connecticut to Virginia in October. Donald Trump lost to Joe Biden in November. In between all of that, I thought I had Covid-19 roughly 100 times. (I didn’t).
And, I had a lot of time to think. Like, a lot. About my relationship (or lack thereof) with my dad. About what kind of dad I was — and wanted to be. About my job and my place in the media world. (Sidenote: They don’t make a lot of “45 under 45” lists and, if they did, I wasn’t on them.) About whether I was stagnating or just sitting in a comfortable spot in, well, everything.
I wish — for selfish reasons — that I could say that all that thinking paid off. That I could look back at my 45th year and say “Oh yeah, I got some stuff figured out.”
I can’t. And I don’t. My anxiety issues — which have been with me since at least my early 20s — stayed with me. Decisions about whether to let the kids play sports, see friends, go to school during the pandemic. Decisions about how to mourn my dad in the middle of a pandemic. Decisions about how much to help my mom sell the house I grew up in. Decisions about my job and what to do next. It was — and is — a lot.
To be clear: While this last year has been the most challenging of my life, I know that the life I have isn’t, well, all that hard. The choices I am faced with are often between a good option and an ok option. I am worlds away from the bad and worse decisions that lots and lots of people were forced to make over the past year. I am well aware of the privilege that goes into even being able to be in a position where I can sit around and reflect on what the hell I am doing with my life. But, while these questions, uncertainties and problems are not the worst, they are mine. And, they weigh on me.
So, I haven’t figured much of anything out. I still get angry over dumb things. I still get jealous of others’ successes. I still lose my temper with my kids and my wife. I still wonder — now more than ever — if the choices I have made in my previous 44 years were the right ones.
The one thing this year — and all of the thinking I’ve done in it — has taught me (or re-taught me) is this: You never, really, figure it all out. It’s just not possible. Life isn’t a code that you crack. Or a tough crossword puzzle clue that you eventually think of the answer to.
Life is a process. It’s a question that, if and when you figure out the answer, poses 50 more. I don’t think with age comes wisdom. I think with age comes the realization that you’re never going to figure it all out. And so, you try to be thankful for the small questions you get answers to.
For me, that’s my mom getting her first Covid vaccine shot last weekend. It’s sitting around the fire pit in my backyard thinking about nothing. It’s hearing my son’s joyful laughter during a soccer practice. It’s seeing my face in the mirror and remembering my dad’s face with that same expression on it. It’s the daily act of writing — and seeing that work published. It’s getting to wake up next to someone I love every morning. It’s having a few aches and pains — I sprained my wrist falling over in the garage this week — but nothing that keeps me from doing what I want to do most days.
Some days I remember these blessings. Others I am consumed by less noble feelings. But, on my 45th birthday, I’ve come to realize that that’s life. It’s not about winning the day or the week. Or always doing exactly what you think you should. It’s about having more days where you remember what you’re thankful for — and using those memories to carry you through when uncertainty and anxiety of being alive surround you.
I am going to try and make today one of those days where I remember. Because that’s all any of us can ever do.
