A coworker of mine turns 40 this weekend. I think he’s looking forward to it, though I can’t really say I was.
And that’s the beauty of the zero birthdays. You know, 20, 30, 40, 50… I can’t list 60 yet because I’m not there, so I can’t exactly qualify as an expert. But my poor old body has been through the other zero milestones and the coming of the anniversary of the birth of my marketing minion gave me pause to recount the passage of these years in my own life.
If you’re wondering where the 10 year milestone is, I omitted it. No one ever really cares that they turn 10. You’re already anxiously waiting for that magic 13, the year you become a teenager, followed by 16 (drive), 18 (vote) and 21 (drink). Those are some really great milestones.
Turning 20 doesn’t really do much for you. If you’ve already entered the business world, then you quickly learn that no one puts much weight in your ideas or opinions when you’re in your twenties – you’re still wet behind the ears. Occasionally you may get lucky and someone will think you had a great suggestion, but they are few and far between. Thankfully, you’re running on shear agerenaline at this stage of life. Your body and brain can still cash more checks than it can write because you’re still living primarily off instinct. There’s not a lot of wisdom to supplement it.
Turning 30 is a big one, though it’s different for men and women. The women I’ve known didn’t particularly care for 30, or 40 for that matter. Me? I loved 30. It’s like someone suddenly turned a switch on. Virtually overnight, my opinions and ideas at work mattered to those often much older than I. Best of all, I worried a little less about what people thought of me. Not much, mind you, as I was still trying to fit into this big world of ours and I wanted to be liked, both in my personal and professional life. So I often held my own opinions of things and others in a fruitless effort to be “one of the guys.”
I even had a great “Robb puts his first foot in the grave” Grim Reaper party. Only 30 guests allowed, one for each year of life, after that I would lock the door. And yes, 30 showed up, but I didn’t have to lock out any of my friends, I just got lucky. The only thing that didn’t work out was that I couldn’t borrow a coffin to put me in and serve as the beer cooler, yes, with me still in it.
Then there was 40. Another turning point in life. I didn’t care about turning 40 as much as I did 30. But there is a bonus round at 40: you get to say what you think and people will take notice. That’s because you’re not really caring anymore if people like you. You’ve been around the block enough to know what you do and don’t like. You have principles that you’ll actually stick to your guns on and if someone doesn’t like you, oh well, others will.
My own 40th birthday was memorable, largely because I became a father again just three weeks before. I was running my own business, I was a pillar of the community and get this – and don’t laugh – people actually sought out my advice. Imagine that! Some of them were the same people who readily dismissed everything I said when I was in my 20s and 30s. Yes, what goes around comes around and as they were on the slip and slide of life on the way down, I was still climbing my way up.
Yes, some time shortly after that, I overdosed on stupid pills and threw it all away for Pussy Galore in Melbouring. We’ve been down that road a time or two. It was in Melbouring that I turned 50, another one of those fantastic turning points.
My marriage was in the dumper, but I was able to use that turning 50 thing to my full advantage. At 50, you realize that you can say anything you want and people either think 1) you’re in the early stages of dementia, 2) you’re a complete asshole or 3), you’ve become a truth-teller.
My ex-whatever readily chose Door #2, convincing herself that I was indeed an asshole. But in reality, I had ascended to being a truth-teller.
Yes, it’s my own truth. I admit that. But once you hit 50 you really don’t care what others think of you. You’ve finally hit your stride. You now know that your words carry great weight, so you use them a little more prudence. That’s not to say you pull your punches. Hardly. You’ve learned that you can speak your mind and to hell with what anyone else thinks.
It’s very freeing. I know that soon the day will come when people write off what I say because I’m an old fart. I have known other old farts in my youth and I did the same thing. And in the wonderful world of “gotchas,” I have learned as I’ve gotten older that these guys weren’t speaking nonsense, but the wisdom of their ages. While I was still trying to go around the block, they had been all over the neighborhood. They knew the lay of the land and were hoping, just hoping, that I would pick up a lesson or two from them and save myself some heartache and missteps along the way.
I didn’t. In the arrogance of my youth, I thought I was being talked down to. I wasn’t. I was being clued in. They were trying to help me as a wise old friend, not a cranky old fart.
I guess that’s the way the world goes round. I see that now in my son. I will give him an important life lesson and he’ll nod his head in agreement, and as soon as he’s out of sight, what I said goes out of mind. As John Sebastian once crooned,
And then I know that all I’ve learned, my kid assumes.
And all my deepest worries must be his cartoons.
And still I’ll try to tell him all the things I’ve done,
relating to what he can do when he becomes a man.
And still he’ll stick his fingers in the fan.
In the Emerald City, looking for looking for a finger-sticking fan,
– Robb