The sun is slowly setting on my 30s. In less than a month I’ll dodder into a new generation.
Will I finally get a grip when I hit the big 4-0?
I remember peering through young, energetic, non-bloodshot, non-bleary eyes at anyone over 30 and thinking: ‘Jeez, you’re an old-timer – not long to go now eh?’
In a blink of those innocent eyes, I have become that old-timer.
Like any self-respecting incumbent 40-year-old, I’m making provisions for my mid-life crisis.
Physical and mental insecurities manifest in your everyday life, so you have to do something radical to prove (to yourself and the wider community) that you still have the magic.
Opting for a new girlfriend/wife comes in pretty high in the top 10.
But I’m afraid I’m far too lazy to put in the time and effort required to court and impress.
Besides, the current wife is proving to be a sterling choice 10 years down the line; there are a few miles left in the old girl yet.
Another option is to buy a throbbing piece of turbo-powered apparatus.
The type of machine that one could easily pay £30k for, fantasising ‘yeah, man, it’s just me, the open road and the wind in my hair (singular)’.
In reality, I’d be crawling up the Eastern Road at 11mph, burning my bald swede in the sun and worrying about fuel consumption.
Or how about a tattoo? Let’s go wild, throw off the inhibitions, untether the inner beast and do something unique. Because very few people have tattoos, right?
No, I’m channelling my mid-life anxieties into something more worrying – Ironman.
Actually, half an Ironman – I haven’t completely lost it.
Swim 2km, cycle 90km (the distance from Portsmouth-London), then top it off with a cheeky half-marathon. Lovely.
Why? Why not? I’m a simpleton and once committed, I’m happy to jump in with both blistered feet.
Besides, I reckon it’s a lot more dignified than buying a biker’s leather jacket and trying to grow a ponytail.