hysanadu

So today I am one year away from 40. The big Four Oh. It's a little surreal to me. I remember my 21st birthday and my 30th birthday. Both were completely unremarkable and rather depressing. My 21st involved doing nothing. I think I was at home with my family. My 30th birthday involved being stood up by a woman who clearly was not interested in me but couldn't find a way to tell me. As usual, I was more than willing to feel guilty for something that wasn't my fault. When you set a date with someone, you usually expect a phonecall or perhaps something like "not into you, don't expect a date tonight, have a nice life," on the answering machine.

I've had a habit in the past of attracting women and people who are not upfront about who they are.

Had I to do it again, I would not have called her. I would've just hung out with my friends and gotten drunk. As it so happened, that was the same night a vagrant set fire to the old Pullman Factory. As I watched from the Metra platform (I didn't have a cell phone then, and was using the pay phone as I waited for the train I ended up not taking downtown), I felt that this was a bad omen for my thirties.

Well, the thirties weren't perfect, but I feel I'm going to miss them. Some important things happened as I hit my thirties. I met my girlfriend going on seven years ago, I learned a lot about who to trust and who not to trust. I met all you SG Chicago folks (ok, maybe that's not really a good thing...KIDDING ).

Still I don't feel ready for my forties yet. While I've long since abandoned the pretense of "mature" behavior (I spent the morning playing video games and watching cartoons), I do feel the forties are when you truly should have plans for the future, even moreso than previously.

I have a brother who is pushing 50, he's about 46, and he still hasn't gotten his life together. He's married to a complete psycho, he's got addiction problems, and his wife is constantly getting pregnant even though he's supposedly sterile (you figure it out). Sometimes I wonder if he realizes where he's headed, how his life is turning out. We've tried to help him but it won't take. Someone has to be willing to help himself.

I feel I'm doing just ok. I could, and will do better, but I am mourning my youth somewhat. I don't miss the stupidity of my youth, my inability to learn from my mistakes and my constant attempts to do the same thing expecting new and exciting results, but I do miss the newness of certain things, the discovery. It isn't that I can't still muster up that kind of child like wonder, it's that I still add a smattering of cynicism as a caveat.

Well, enough navel-gazing. I suppose realizing 20 years actually _didn't_ fly by quickly helps me feel a little better. It's still eerie that 20 years ago I was moving to Indiana to live with my family (after a failed attempt to stay in Chicago) and watching the City Council fight over who would take over after Harold Washington's death.

Strange days, indeed.