I turned 40 in December. It was actually hard typing that, I literally felt a tweak in my carpel tunnel. 

It’s possible some of you are worried about me, that this roll over the hill may have caused me some emotional trauma and existential burden that’s rendered me swaying back and forth clenching a teddy bear in the corner of my office. 

But I’m OK. Quite well, in fact. And I wanted to fill you in on what 40 is like. 

Lawyers

I have two lawyers right now. That’s so stupid. Lawyers are for people who commit a complicated murder and almost get away with it on Law and Order. But not for me. I live by the law. I’m afraid of doing anything wrong. A great triumph for my family would be to not land myself in jail and be a decent warm body for the remainder of my life. So I shouldn’t need a lawyer. 

But I am getting older, which means I have to think about dying and keeping the government from getting all up in my property. So I have an estate attorney for setting up my will and an eminent domain attorney for helping us settle a road widening project running through our backyard. 

Forty equals two lawyers. Forty is spending lots of money to ensure excrement doesn’t fly into the fan of life. 

Hair

I also have to spend money on my hair. I don’t want to. I got spoiled during the pandemic having my wife give me free haircuts in our garage. Results varied. Not Dani’s fault, she’s a novice clipper working with a struggling head of hair. 

But my barber budget went to bupkis. That was 20 bucks more a month I could spend on necessities like gasoline and cheese. 

Dani’s first garage cut was a true COVID cut. Nothing more than a perfunctory hair hack you’d endure checking into a prison camp. It didn’t matter. The only people who’d see it were your family and in-public quarantine randos who couldn’t tell who you were anyway because of your mask. It wasn’t a bad time for people who don’t care about hair. 

But Dani endeavored to up her game and give something semi-pro-grade. There were OK cuts and not-so-OK cuts, but no matter what, the hair only grew back so much. And when it did, it grew back in non-uniform ways, like sprouting weeds curling upon an untreated lawn. Like my lawn, actually!

Now that we’re back to being a society where people see each other’s heads—and me going back to work—I had to enlist a pro. Not just any pro. I’m used to bargain cuts from folks who probably got their cosmetology license watching YouTube videos. I needed someone who could look at my head and make magic. Like unbalding me. 

A tall task, but the barber’s solution was sound. Cut it really damn short. Not military grade but not far off either. A little more money, but worth it, I think. And now I need to keep it short to keep it looking OK, which means an expensive haircut every three weeks instead of a cheap one every six. 

Health

Everybody says 40 is the age when things begin hurting. Parts you always counted on start to literally crack under pressure. Your body subversively decides you need to pay for all the time you took off focusing on basic healthcare. 

So to feel better about ourselves and remind the body that we care, we get a physical. I hadn’t had one in a decade, probably because I’ve been concerning myself with keeping my own children alive. But enough of the children, I’m 40 and I deserve some self-care. 

I’m thankful and fortunate I haven’t spent much time in doctor’s offices. I didn’t know what to expect of my visit, whether I’d need to strip down and wear a hanky-thin gown or if I’d just be having conversations about regular medications and earwax buildup. Thankfully it was more of the latter, and also thankfully my earwax buildup is next to nil, quite a feat for such a prolific earplug wearer as I. That reminds me another 40 thing is adding the earplug value carton to my Amazon cart. And…done. 

But the physical went well. It was more of a “social,” just an interview of my health problems (I eat too many Cheez-It’s) and health concerns (I don’t stretch my groin like I used to and what if end up in a chase sequence and have to sprint and jump without warning?) Good news is I’m healthy as a horse—that is—the kind eating grass in the pasture and not the war-torn steed smoking cigarettes in the ice bath. I feel for that guy. 

Maybe that’s what 50 is like.