Today is my forty-first birthday, and it feels… well, anti-climactic. There is absolutely nothing significant about turning 41.
Of course, my birthday falling on a weekday probably didn’t help. This morning I just got up, went to work, ate dinner, went to church, and now I type these words sprawled out on my bed.
Having eclipsed most age-related milestones, it would seem the only birthdays that still “mean something” will be when I surpass another decade. Turning 40, or 50, or 60, or 70, or 80… may be a big damn deal, but add a year and it’s suddenly anti-climax.