--You lower your stepercize step one level.
--You lighten your exercise weights one pound.
--You ratchet your workout level down one.
--You notice how disrespectful young people are.
--You have nothing to lose.
--You go out of the house looking frumpy.
--People in their 20’s look like kids.
--Police, firefighters and pilots look like kids.
--It's no longer about should or shouldn't. It's must.
--You don’t doubt as much. You know.
--You return to self.
--You return to self from whatever you thought you were or were trying to be.
--You re-visit and re-examine your childhood, adolescence, your 20’s.
--Dreams begin to usurp reality or visa-versa (depending on how you've lived your life
so far).
--You have to get everything out of your system.
--Everything repressed MUST be dealt with now.
--You're no longer ashamed of who you are. You’re just you.
--You begin to number your days.
--Your knees creak.
--You’re sure.
--You’re desperate.
--You go for broke.
--You risk.
--Your creative, artsy side comes out. On the warpath.
--You actually admit you are going to be old some day.
--You can actually imagine yourself old.
--You actually plan for old age. Seriously.
--You don't care about A LOT of things.
--Frolicking looks ridiculous.
--So you frolic.
--Because you don't care.
--You stop worrying.
--You lighten your exercise weights one pound.
--You ratchet your workout level down one.
--You notice how disrespectful young people are.
--You have nothing to lose.
--You go out of the house looking frumpy.
--People in their 20’s look like kids.
--Police, firefighters and pilots look like kids.
--It's no longer about should or shouldn't. It's must.
--You don’t doubt as much. You know.
--You return to self.
--You return to self from whatever you thought you were or were trying to be.
--You re-visit and re-examine your childhood, adolescence, your 20’s.
--Dreams begin to usurp reality or visa-versa (depending on how you've lived your life
so far).
--You have to get everything out of your system.
--Everything repressed MUST be dealt with now.
--You're no longer ashamed of who you are. You’re just you.
--You begin to number your days.
--Your knees creak.
--You’re sure.
--You’re desperate.
--You go for broke.
--You risk.
--Your creative, artsy side comes out. On the warpath.
--You actually admit you are going to be old some day.
--You can actually imagine yourself old.
--You actually plan for old age. Seriously.
--You don't care about A LOT of things.
--Frolicking looks ridiculous.
--So you frolic.
--Because you don't care.
--You stop worrying.
--Your tongue gets looser, but not as loose as old fogeydom.
--You've paid some dues.
--You say: Enough.
--You decide to let go of your sicknesses.
--You must let go of your sicknesses.
--You decide to let go of a lot of things.
--You must let go of a lot of things.
--You decide to grow up.
--You decide to never grow up.
--You decide to stop hating yourself.
--You decide to enjoy life.
--You decide to forego enjoying life for a good cause.
--You reprioritize EVERYTHING.
--You can hear your knees.
--You don't do the miraculous any more.
--You don't do the impossible any more.
--You don't do the ridiculous any more.
--Absolutely everything changes and there's nothing you can do about it.
--You wonder if you should still go through the motions.
--You have a great urge to:
retire
reinvent
run away.
--You've leveled off.
--You've learned all your life skills.
--You're past your peak, at the summit, and not yet there all at the same time.
--You've proved yourself to yourself (and that's all that counts).
--Your patience runs out (for some things).
--You've got lots of patience (for other things).
--You're not apologetic.
--You become merciful.
--You become merciful without excusing yourself or others.
--You know many "long stories."
--You are old enough to be a lot of people's mother/father.
--Your life flashes before you frequently (a foretaste of “instant recall” and death).
--You kick off your shoes (heedless of corn pads, moleskin and bunion bumpers).
--You let your (graying) hair down.
--You settle in and set out at the same time.
--Someone important to you has died.
--One or both of your parents will die soon.
--You don't let your chain be yanked.
--You don’t suffer fools (except yourself).
--You're nobody's fool (except your own).
--You celebrate (a little) more.
--You begin guessing how old people are.
--You get nervous when the subject of age comes up in mixed company (people in their 20’s).
--You begin lying about your age.
--You begin lying about your birthdate.
--You scrutinize other people’s wrinkles.
--You scrutinize your own wrinkles.
--This is it.
--The real supersedes the abstract.
--You make your peace with a lot of things.
--You make your peace with a lot of people.
--You make your peace with life.
--You make your peace with death.
--You make your peace with God.
--You can't do the curly handlebars on your 10-speed anymore.
--You begin taking aspirin and red wine every day (but not together).
--You educate yourself about things like estrogen replacement and Medicare.
--You skim your parents’ AARP literature. But you’re just skimming.
--You redo the rungs in the ladder that you skipped (the summer school of middle age).
--EVERYTHING catches up to you.
--You are tempted to substitute the infinite object of your infinite desire with the finite.
--You begin to see ways out and ways in.
--You stop banging your head against the wall.
--You accept “can’t” about certain things and focus on what you're good at.
--Your knees talk to you.
--You remember all the TV shows and ad jingles from your childhood in surreal living detail (and have heated arguments with other pathetic forty year olds about them).
--You know who Ruth Buzzy is.
--You can fill in the blank: "Oh Fab, we're glad, they put more _______ in you!"
--David Cassidy was once a dominant figure in your life.
--You know what "Wacky Packs" were. And what Zarex was.
--You are given to reminiscing.
--It's now or never.
--You can SEE old age and death from your house.
--You look at all your books and think: I will never read all of these before I die. (You once thought you would.)
--You think "before I die" a lot.
--Gray-haired people are actually attractive.
--Gray-haired people have “character.”
--You have gray in your eyebrows.
--You begin to admit you "hate" certain things.
--You can't fake ANYTHING any more.
--You're getting free, freer than you've ever been.
--You're not afraid of much.
--You're at the end of the line.
--You're not afraid to put all your eggs in one basket. And you don't care if they break.
--You are more like your parents than you've ever been, and you don’t even mind.
--You are in shock at your childhood friends’ deteriorated appearances and wonder: “Do I look like that?!”
--You’re changing gears.
--Your knees are Rice Krispies: snap, crackle, pop.
--You start to see both sides.
--You can get waffle-y because you start to see both sides.
--You mellow without fighting.
--You have less trouble envisioning old people when they were younger.
--You have to consciously let go of a bunch of psychological, material, and spiritual ballast or you’ll never grow up.
--You have to consciously let go of a bunch of psychological, material and spiritual ballast or you’ll hurt yourself.
--You travel lighter (and it feels great!)
--“We’re like river stones, always being moved on.” (Ann Wilson of Heart)
--You used to listen to Heart.
--You still listen to Heart because try as you might to pretend you prefer something else, you prefer classic rock.
--You know that 70’s women rocked.
--You know that classic rock is the REAL rock.
--You are mentally preparing for death, tying up loose ends.
--Your “outer man is decaying” and you know it.
--“Moving on” doesn’t come automatically: you have to help it.
--You trust God.
--More than ever.
--You’re closer than ever to God.
--Your only new experiences in life are of your body falling apart.
--And it’s permanent.
--It’s all downhill, a slow descent: “A long goodbye.” (Anthony Hopkins)
--“Saving face” takes on a whole new meaning. It’s the one part of your body you can’t hide so you spend the most time and money trying to salvage what’s left of it.
--You wish you used more sunblock before. (So you wouldn’t be using what feels like leather polish now.)
--You wish you listened to a lot more good advice before.
--If you’re a woman, your voice gets lower.
--If you’re a man, you get in touch with your estrogen.
--If you’re a woman, you get in touch with your testosterone.
--If you’re a woman, you grow a mustache and beard.
--Whether you’re a man or woman, you have “hair problems.”
--Your hair problems involve either Rogaine or Nair.
--You have “posterior problems.”
--Your posterior problems involve either prunes or Preparation H.
--You ask yourself:
What must I do before I die?
What will I not regret at the point of death?
What is God going to ask me about when I croak?
What did I do with my life?
If the answer is the same to all four questions, you’re blessed.
--It’s your last chance for everything.
--You have just enough brain cells and physical strength left for your last chances.
--You know that youth is wasted on the young and retirement is wasted on the retired: what YOU would do with all that energy and time!
--You play for keeps.
--This is your only semi-autonomous period of life—your only time out of Pampers and Depends, between Huggies and Attends.
--You come up for air.
--Big gulps of it.
--Many things fall into silence.
--You have accomplished many tasks.
--If you were to die now, you wouldn’t “die young.”
--You’re dying and you feel your dying.
--No matter what way you slice it, there’s no way you’re young or cute anymore.
--No one’s looking at you anymore.
--You’re not even looking at you anymore. (Except to apply leather polish.)
--No one’s looking TO you for anything except maintenance-type roles.
--You’re too old to be hip, too young to be sage.
--You’re invisible.
--It’s a relief, an advantage and a disadvantage.
--Your speech is becoming hopelessly outdated because you are becoming hopelessly outdated.
--You have random flashbacks of random forgotten memories.
--You watch every move of celebrities your age. How long will they stay on top? How long before they are irrelevant has-beens? When they fall, you fall.
--Dressing yourself becomes a quandary. You don’t want to dress too young or too matronly/patronly.
--You take all kinds of laughable potions like liquid glucosamine and flaxseed oil.
--You now know what bittersweet means.
--You now know that life is bittersweet.
--You savor everything.
--You’re grateful for everything.
--Nobody prepared you for this.
--Some people even lied.
--You certainly are not going to prepare anybody for this.
--Don’t be “disgusted at 40” that your dreams haven’t come true (yet).
--Don’t hold onto things like you were 32.
--Don’t go over old ground like you were 33.
--Don’t make your point/presence felt like you were 34.
--If you refuse/resist to do 40, it can be very, very ugly for you and those around you.
--The stages of life are for a reason.
--“If you refuse to be 40, you will be intellectually sterile for the rest of your life.”
(Leo Tolstoy)
--Your knees blow out.
--You say: Enough.
--You decide to let go of your sicknesses.
--You must let go of your sicknesses.
--You decide to let go of a lot of things.
--You must let go of a lot of things.
--You decide to grow up.
--You decide to never grow up.
--You decide to stop hating yourself.
--You decide to enjoy life.
--You decide to forego enjoying life for a good cause.
--You reprioritize EVERYTHING.
--You can hear your knees.
--You don't do the miraculous any more.
--You don't do the impossible any more.
--You don't do the ridiculous any more.
--Absolutely everything changes and there's nothing you can do about it.
--You wonder if you should still go through the motions.
--You have a great urge to:
retire
reinvent
run away.
--You've leveled off.
--You've learned all your life skills.
--You're past your peak, at the summit, and not yet there all at the same time.
--You've proved yourself to yourself (and that's all that counts).
--Your patience runs out (for some things).
--You've got lots of patience (for other things).
--You're not apologetic.
--You become merciful.
--You become merciful without excusing yourself or others.
--You know many "long stories."
--You are old enough to be a lot of people's mother/father.
--Your life flashes before you frequently (a foretaste of “instant recall” and death).
--You kick off your shoes (heedless of corn pads, moleskin and bunion bumpers).
--You let your (graying) hair down.
--You settle in and set out at the same time.
--Someone important to you has died.
--One or both of your parents will die soon.
--You don't let your chain be yanked.
--You don’t suffer fools (except yourself).
--You're nobody's fool (except your own).
--You celebrate (a little) more.
--You begin guessing how old people are.
--You get nervous when the subject of age comes up in mixed company (people in their 20’s).
--You begin lying about your age.
--You begin lying about your birthdate.
--You scrutinize other people’s wrinkles.
--You scrutinize your own wrinkles.
--This is it.
--The real supersedes the abstract.
--You make your peace with a lot of things.
--You make your peace with a lot of people.
--You make your peace with life.
--You make your peace with death.
--You make your peace with God.
--You can't do the curly handlebars on your 10-speed anymore.
--You begin taking aspirin and red wine every day (but not together).
--You educate yourself about things like estrogen replacement and Medicare.
--You skim your parents’ AARP literature. But you’re just skimming.
--You redo the rungs in the ladder that you skipped (the summer school of middle age).
--EVERYTHING catches up to you.
--You are tempted to substitute the infinite object of your infinite desire with the finite.
--You begin to see ways out and ways in.
--You stop banging your head against the wall.
--You accept “can’t” about certain things and focus on what you're good at.
--Your knees talk to you.
--You remember all the TV shows and ad jingles from your childhood in surreal living detail (and have heated arguments with other pathetic forty year olds about them).
--You know who Ruth Buzzy is.
--You can fill in the blank: "Oh Fab, we're glad, they put more _______ in you!"
--David Cassidy was once a dominant figure in your life.
--You know what "Wacky Packs" were. And what Zarex was.
--You are given to reminiscing.
--It's now or never.
--You can SEE old age and death from your house.
--You look at all your books and think: I will never read all of these before I die. (You once thought you would.)
--You think "before I die" a lot.
--Gray-haired people are actually attractive.
--Gray-haired people have “character.”
--You have gray in your eyebrows.
--You begin to admit you "hate" certain things.
--You can't fake ANYTHING any more.
--You're getting free, freer than you've ever been.
--You're not afraid of much.
--You're at the end of the line.
--You're not afraid to put all your eggs in one basket. And you don't care if they break.
--You are more like your parents than you've ever been, and you don’t even mind.
--You are in shock at your childhood friends’ deteriorated appearances and wonder: “Do I look like that?!”
--You’re changing gears.
--Your knees are Rice Krispies: snap, crackle, pop.
--You start to see both sides.
--You can get waffle-y because you start to see both sides.
--You mellow without fighting.
--You have less trouble envisioning old people when they were younger.
--You have to consciously let go of a bunch of psychological, material, and spiritual ballast or you’ll never grow up.
--You have to consciously let go of a bunch of psychological, material and spiritual ballast or you’ll hurt yourself.
--You travel lighter (and it feels great!)
--“We’re like river stones, always being moved on.” (Ann Wilson of Heart)
--You used to listen to Heart.
--You still listen to Heart because try as you might to pretend you prefer something else, you prefer classic rock.
--You know that 70’s women rocked.
--You know that classic rock is the REAL rock.
--You are mentally preparing for death, tying up loose ends.
--Your “outer man is decaying” and you know it.
--“Moving on” doesn’t come automatically: you have to help it.
--You trust God.
--More than ever.
--You’re closer than ever to God.
--Your only new experiences in life are of your body falling apart.
--And it’s permanent.
--It’s all downhill, a slow descent: “A long goodbye.” (Anthony Hopkins)
--“Saving face” takes on a whole new meaning. It’s the one part of your body you can’t hide so you spend the most time and money trying to salvage what’s left of it.
--You wish you used more sunblock before. (So you wouldn’t be using what feels like leather polish now.)
--You wish you listened to a lot more good advice before.
--If you’re a woman, your voice gets lower.
--If you’re a man, you get in touch with your estrogen.
--If you’re a woman, you get in touch with your testosterone.
--If you’re a woman, you grow a mustache and beard.
--Whether you’re a man or woman, you have “hair problems.”
--Your hair problems involve either Rogaine or Nair.
--You have “posterior problems.”
--Your posterior problems involve either prunes or Preparation H.
--You ask yourself:
What must I do before I die?
What will I not regret at the point of death?
What is God going to ask me about when I croak?
What did I do with my life?
If the answer is the same to all four questions, you’re blessed.
--It’s your last chance for everything.
--You have just enough brain cells and physical strength left for your last chances.
--You know that youth is wasted on the young and retirement is wasted on the retired: what YOU would do with all that energy and time!
--You play for keeps.
--This is your only semi-autonomous period of life—your only time out of Pampers and Depends, between Huggies and Attends.
--You come up for air.
--Big gulps of it.
--Many things fall into silence.
--You have accomplished many tasks.
--If you were to die now, you wouldn’t “die young.”
--You’re dying and you feel your dying.
--No matter what way you slice it, there’s no way you’re young or cute anymore.
--No one’s looking at you anymore.
--You’re not even looking at you anymore. (Except to apply leather polish.)
--No one’s looking TO you for anything except maintenance-type roles.
--You’re too old to be hip, too young to be sage.
--You’re invisible.
--It’s a relief, an advantage and a disadvantage.
--Your speech is becoming hopelessly outdated because you are becoming hopelessly outdated.
--You have random flashbacks of random forgotten memories.
--You watch every move of celebrities your age. How long will they stay on top? How long before they are irrelevant has-beens? When they fall, you fall.
--Dressing yourself becomes a quandary. You don’t want to dress too young or too matronly/patronly.
--You take all kinds of laughable potions like liquid glucosamine and flaxseed oil.
--You now know what bittersweet means.
--You now know that life is bittersweet.
--You savor everything.
--You’re grateful for everything.
--Nobody prepared you for this.
--Some people even lied.
--You certainly are not going to prepare anybody for this.
--Don’t be “disgusted at 40” that your dreams haven’t come true (yet).
--Don’t hold onto things like you were 32.
--Don’t go over old ground like you were 33.
--Don’t make your point/presence felt like you were 34.
--If you refuse/resist to do 40, it can be very, very ugly for you and those around you.
--The stages of life are for a reason.
--“If you refuse to be 40, you will be intellectually sterile for the rest of your life.”
(Leo Tolstoy)
--Your knees blow out.
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