I turn 40 on Wednesday.
Fuck this shit.
It’s quite a bit of
fakery fuckery–as opposed to fakery as my mac would like to auto-correct. It’s probably less of fakery fuckery to those over forty and more of fakery fuckery to those approaching forty and quite inexplicably impossible to those below the age of 28.
What’s that Louis C.K. bit? “At 40 you’re too young for anybody to give a shit about you but too old for anybody to be impressed anything you’ve done.”
Here is the
fakery fuckery… when you think of middle-aged guys doesn’t a dude in his 50’s sporting a bad plug-job in a convertible come to mind? The reality is, at least in my family, I am actually quite passed middle-aged. Middle being the mean. I am already five years removed from middle-aged.
Here’s the thing, this has nothing to do with death. I’m not afraid to die. Death sounds well-rested, comfortable and relaxing.
I kind of hope I go like my Uncle Dick. Shortly after his 70th birthday he said, “I don’t feel well” and went to lie down. Those were his last words.
As my friend Pepe once said, “I don’t want to live so long I can’t wipe my own ass.”
Also well put.
It’s impossible to not take inventory and compare and contrast to not only my peers but also to the ridiculous delusions of grandeur of my youth. Therein lies a treasure trove of
fakery fuckery. I’ve never done acid, but I’ve been told if you do, never look in a mirror. (Unless you’re Roger Sterling, in this case you will see Don Draper and who wouldn’t want to see that?) At 40, whatever you do, don’t look in that fucking mirror. It’s… awful.
Facebook is also bullshit in this regard. There’s no chance of living in a comfortable vacuum while blinded by the unending flickering projection of a hand on the backside of a bicycle seat’s first solo no-training wheel coast down a suburban twilight street replete with fireflies gawked at in a temporary Ball jar prison.
If you are childless every first-something is a reminder of a last-something.
I’m not looking for sympathy. Every day people turn 40. 50. 60. 70. Die. Are born. I guess the beauty of the struggle is what you thought would happen vs. what happened.
And this, folks, is what alcohol is for.
Feel free to submit a name for this delicious concoction.
I recently had the immense pleasure of a tour at GrandTen’s distillery in Boston’s own Southie. They sent me packing with a bottle of Wire Works–an unbelievably smooth and tasty gin.
I paired it with Q Tonic’s newest ginger ale and a bit of Domain De Canton liqueur.
Help me with a name…
- 2 OZ. Wire Works Gin
- 1 OZ. Domain De Canton
- splash of Q Tonic Ginger Ale
- 1/2 fresh squeezed lemon
- over ice
Don’t worry, I am sure this uplifting post will be cheerfully amended in 2022.
If you add carbonated water, you could call it The 40th Fuckery Fizz.
Alliteration. I like it.
I second the Fuckery Fizz. Congrats on making it to the big 4-0, bud. Cheers.