Forty. Forty years old. It’s official, there’s no more pretending that I’m not a full ass adult.

It’s here, I’m forty.

It’s a weird thing. Like if you’d asked me growing up where I thought I’d be at this age, the life I would have pictured for myself would have been so different. I had a lot of expectations I put on myself back then, and I’m happy I defied so many of them.

I mean, seriously, twenty year old me had no idea what they were doing and had no place trying to tell forty year old me what life should be like.

My thirties were a decade of change — at thirty I had just gotten married, Crysta and I had just moved to Indiana, and I was sort of lost. I was lost for most of my twenties too. Not having a rudder was kind of my THING it feels like sometimes. I’ve spent most of my adult not really having direction. Even when we moved back to Wisconsin three years ago, it wasn’t with any purpose beyond “we like it more than Indiana.”

If the last year has taught me anything though, having “direction” is friggin’ overrated though. I know so many people whose plans were tossed overboard in the storm that is 2020, and I’ve learned to appreciate what I have so much more.

I mean yeah, it’s been stressful as shit and I’ve had a massively hard time working on creative projects (I was going to start Peregrine Lake and revive Crosarth this year — which very much did not happen), but that’s just, y’know, because we’re living in a nightmare.

But my turning 40 is not a part of that nightmare. Turning 40 is, frankly, kind of nice.

View Comments