All I Can Say Is That My Life Is Pretty Plain

This is it. The home stretch. Exactly one year and six months from today, I will complete my fortieth trip around the sun.  Frankly, it's a little terrifying. I've always looked at forty as a benchmark that stood out among all others. The line of demarcation between young and old. Second base, the fifty yard line, the Second Inauguration. Maybe because it's I vividly remember my parents turning forty. Heck, I was already sneaking bottles of booze and buying cigarettes when that happened, so it REALLY doesn't seem that long ago. Perhaps it's because folks in their twenties are routinely considered young, turning thirty is full of "You're best days are still ahead of you" encouragement, while turning 50 or 60 has the perception of "Well yeah, you're old".

But forty? Shit man, while it's not time for the AARP Card, it sure as heck ain't young.

I'm already dealing with blood pressure medication, 20 Year High School Reunions, having to stretch my Achilles Tendon before I get out of bed in the morning, wondering if it would be too obvious if I started using Just For Men at this point and leaving baseball games early "to beat the traffic".

I've traded beer pong for golf and tie dyed t-shirts for collared polos - and not just on Christmas. Like, on a random night out for a casual meal. The last auto I purchased had to be affordable and fuel efficient. As she comes to her natural end, I've lined up replacements with qualifications like "roomy" and "easy to get into". 

And if that's not bad enough, this happened:

A very big piece of my soul died when I saw that. Arguably the most iconic song of my senior year in high school is now being used to pimp a freakin Honda minivan? And even grandpa's singing along? So. Not. Cool. My initial reaction upon seeing this was something between Brad Pitt's "What's in the box?" and Darth Vader when he learns of Padame's death.

Ever since I was a wee lad - which it's getting more and more obvious was quite some time ago - I've had an infatuation with the idea of generations. It was much easier growing up though. My parents were baby boomers - they of the Beatles on Ed Sullivan-turned Woodstock attending draft card burners-turned devout capitalist Reaganite generation. Even if none of that fit my parents narrative.

Their parents were what I knew as "The World War II Generation" until Tom Brokaw cut his Oedipus Complex with Viagra and deemed them "The Greatest Generation". You couldn't say ANYTHING bad about The Greatest Generation, after all, THEY LIBERATED EUROPE FROM TYRANNY!!!! And then came back home, sprawled into suburbia, lost control of their young and escalated the Vietnam War before retiring with a full pension from wherever they worked and becoming the sweetest, gentlest grandparents the world had ever seen.

And nowadays you can't read or watch a damn thing without the term Millennial shoved down your throat. Because Millenials do everything. They've redefined urban America, they've swung elections, they've become the judge, jury and executioner on all products, brands and services and there's countless other unfounded and straight up lies about their impact and societal worth, because hey, people love to talk about themselves. (As I intend to prove)

And then there's me. Websters...er...Wikipedia tells me that I'm part of Generation X, since I fall into an arbitrary group of people born between 1961 and 1981. I don't dispute those findings, as I've said many times that I relate in generational experiences more with people born fifteen years before me than I do with those born seven or eight years after me. But having said all of that, when you subdivide a generation, I find the "fourth quarter" of GenX to be "my people". And My People are on the precipice of one of life's turning points.

I've dabbled in internet writing/blogging many times since the medium was invented but have yet to be able to find that one topic I could even pass myself off as an expert on. Well, maybe early millennium politics but when everyone else realized George W Bush was an unmitigated disaster who broke the world, railing against him seemed pointless since it was like writing about how blue the sky was, or how I thought water was essential to human life forms. I'm a huge baseball fan but got lapped by the new era of advanced statistics that brought baseball analysis from bar-stool debates to an esoteric series of spreadsheets and algebra. Lots of fucking algebra. I adore music, film and television but for Christ's sake, is there anything about any of the arts that hasn't been written about ad nauseam?

One concept that always piqued my interest though was "The Mommy Blog". Always thought it was a novel idea. An often talented writer would share her experiences as they happened, often to the benefit of readers undergoing a similar life-altering event. But wouldn't ya know, I'm not, nor have ever been (or plan to be) a Mommy.  Heck, I'm not even a Daddy.

I am approaching middle age, however. And my people are to. We didn't storm Normandy and we don't remember where we were when Kennedy died. But we didn't grow up with the internet and we remember using the yellow pages. We're not quite the Winona Ryder/Ethan Hawke slice of Generation X, but now we're the ones cooking the holiday meals. Over the next 18 months and beyond I hope to share my experiences and reflect on the journey that brought a generation to the threshold of this anti-puberty. Hopefully I rub you the right way.