47

Another birthday just came around. They seem to come more often these days. I’m thoroughly middle-aged now. I’m reaching the high noon of life — from whence there is nowhere to go but down. Birthdays aren’t much fun anymore.

No, I don’t like middle age. Life in the middle years is so unscripted. When you’re a kid you know what to do — prepare yourself for the years ahead. When you’re old too you know what to do — wrap things up and summarize. But in the middle years it’s not clear what your task is. The deadline is still too far ahead (you’d like to think). There is just so much consciousness to get through — day after day of random being and random thinking and random fears. I need more guidance.

When I was a kid I always wondered what the secret was that all adults shared. They seemed so self-confident, so authoritative, so worry free. I’ll find out, I thought. But I never did find out. I still don’t know how to be an adult. I can’t speak with authority without saying something that undermines the image; I can’t fold my face into that ponderous demeanor. In fact I’m amazed every time I get a pay check or every time I put the key in the door to my office and it opens.

I’m 47 and the discrepancy is all the time growing between what I am and what I’m supposed to be.