Forty, its middle age, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve been told anyway. The funny thing is I don’t feel middle age. I feel, well, if I may be so bold, I feel young or at least youngish.
I’ve never been bothered by gray hair. Those started appearing at the ripe ole age of twenty-two. My father, much like the father in the movie My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding, sighs and says things like,
“Whatever happened to that nice red color you use to dye your hair? That looked nice.”
On the other side of the monkey bars, I mean family tree, I have a sister-in-law (and her brood) who love to tease me about my gray. They always comment on it and tell me I should dye it. It’s even been suggested that I look, “old” with my streaks of gray.
Then there’s a certain friend and her family who, when we seem them, never fails to point out my graying head. Sigh.
Then there are the wrinkles. Those pesky, tell-tale lines that first appeared on my forehead and now are beginning to deepen around my eyes, they don’t bother me a bit. Thankfully, I’m not a smoker so I don’t have smoker lines around my mouth. I think, for the most part, that I’m aging fairly well. Even better, really, since I’ve started taking better care of myself.
But those words middle age mock me. I despise them. I’m not afraid of death. Well, I’m not afraid to die, I am rather afraid to suffer, however. For the Christian, death is nothing more than the next step into eternity. Yet, the word middle reminds me that there may come a time when I’ll be at the end, which translates (hopefully) OLD.
Am I having a mid-life crisis?