I couldn’t turn 55, but I did, and I am

In February of each year I have my birthday. This year I turned 55. Yes, 55, a number which does have its own song:

So let me take a step back from my usual topics, withdraw from the world situation for a moment, and answer the question: what’s it like?

This is awkward for me. I’m not comfortable writing about myself. I run into all the usual autobiographical obstacles: it feels arrogant, I don’t think the stuff will be interesting, there’s a big dollop of vulnerability, etc. Yet I’ve done this before (2021, 2019, 2018, 2018, 2017), so I have some momentum, at least, and some interest from readers, so I’ll flail on.

At first turning 55 wasn’t a big deal. I worked hard the whole day. My wife and I enjoyed a nice, if pandemic-constrained, dinner. I checked into Facebook and found hundreds of kind comments, which made me tear up. Nothing much else happened.

Then, a day later, after one huge work project finished and a few open minutes let my mind roam, I found myself sideswiped by reflections. Mentally I turned inward, away from the world. 55 seemed a lot closer to 60 than I’d expected. I recoiled from that thought (someone helpfully told me a restaurant chain gives senior discounts to people 55 and up) and…