Tasting 45

Image via Wikipedia

This week I hit the 45-49 age group (as a runner, I think in age groups). When I hit 40, it was no big deal. I didn’t feel old and it was kind of cool to now be considered a master in running. Not quite as cool as being a Jedi master, but still pretty good. At the very least it gave me yet another chance to win something at a race (overall, age group and the master’s award). However, the next level of master (grand master) does not arrive until 50. As such, 45 does not give me much-other than having survived another year despite a history of bad decision making involving ladders and roofs.

Having seen other men fall into middle aged stupidity, I was a bit worried that when I hit 45 I would suddenly be unable to prevent myself from doing one or more of the following:

• Taking shirtless photos of myself using a cell phone and a mirror, then taking out a creepy Craig’s List ad.
• Buying a red sports car.
• Buying a huge SUV.
• Getting a big, gold medallion and a white disco suit with a “big V chest vent.”
• Stockpiling Viagra.
• Letting my hair grow out to allow for a “comb over.”
• Quitting my job to “find myself.”
• Buying clothes at Abercrombie & Fitch to look “young and cool.”
• Hitting on stewardesses.
• Running around town naked, yelling about how death is chasing me.
• Taking a nap.

Oddly enough, aside from a sharp pain at the exact moment I hit 45, nothing happened. I can only infer that my midlife is at least 50 years away, thanks to all that running (and preservatives).