I was not the oldest at the party, an awkward dude probably five years my senior taking that (dis)honor, but I was surely not the youngest, not by a long shot. At concerts, at bars, at smaller gatherings such as this one, on hut trips, on our various other adventures, I now tend to be on the more aged side of the spectrum. Professionally, in my parenting life, and in my community endeavors, I have now progressed into a distinct middle position, an obvious reflection of my middle age and a beautiful point along the continuum in which to find myself. Frequently with my parents socially and otherwise, there is also a context in which I am the young buck, which has its affirming qualities.
Age may just be a number, but that is also just a cliché, so I both honor and ignore that banality, as is fitting. Almost halfway into my forty-fifth year and I have felt this time as a true midpoint – grounding without being an anchor, perspective without lamentation, in many ways a relief to have made it this far. Given my penchant for shaky decisions around my bodily safety overlaid upon the normal risks of human existence, it is no small feat to be happy, healthy, and thriving, a stasis that could change at any moment, so one that I venerate and appreciate.
From this temporal perch, I can look backwards (left, in my mind’s eye) to 25, 15, 5 – each representative of distinct eras of my life. In this view, it is 25 that is the most captivating. Of course, my youth and teenage years were formative, but although harbingers of my adult life, they are background for this thought exercise. At 25, I was just at the beginning of my legal career, in a totally different geography, a confusing mix of mature and immature. Although imbued with great responsibility and freedom, since I was always the youngest person in the office, courtroom, boardroom, I have the sense that I was merely playacting at a role that I was not sure suited me.
It was that discomfort that ultimately pushed me into the decision that would inexorably alter my life for the better – to step off the corporate law track, to satiate my thirst for travel and adventure, to reconfigure the trajectory of my vocation. From a bit lost at 25 to happily ensconced at 45 took two decades full of trauma and triumph, tribulations and tranquility, tragedy and transcendence. Contemplating this path leaves me awed and mystified, but mostly proud to have pushed so hard and weathered so much in order to have created not only my darling daughter but also a litany of treasured memories, moments that I will have forever even if life ends tomorrow.
Violet starts high school next year, a mere quadrennial away from college, and so my gaze has inevitably shifted forward (looker’s right) to all that will pass until my 65th birthday. There is great comfort in embracing my calling, such that I know that I will always be counsel and a voice of reason, regardless of the particular form that such will take in the next epoch. Technology allowing me to be increasingly untethered, I suspect strongly that my wanderlust will motivate rambles to destinations familiar and unknown. Still fit enough, there are myriad ski, bike, and foot powered adventures on the horizon, likely chasing my child and her friends and being satisfied if I am not completely left in the dust.
My relationship with Violet will advance into one of equals, wisdom flowing increasingly in both directions. It is no secret that I am terrified of my parents aging, but it is inevitable that there will be irretrievable loss. The mere thought crushes me – I had to stop writing this article to call my folks and tearily repeat my appreciation and love for them. My friend groups will continue to reorient, as people come and go in the Valley, as new interests drive new connections. I may actually find a partner with whom I can spend these ensuing years, an absence that has left me feeling less than whole.
If there is one image that represents my vision of my life at 65, it is sitting outside on a beautiful spring day in Paris’ 9th arrondissement, Violet and I rehashing our memories of the summer of 2023 as her offspring sits in my lap, giggling as Papa Poubelle eats the scraps off everyone’s plate. Change is a constant, but my appetite is forever.