Stupid numbers. Why do some matter more than others? Shake fear into us. Terrorize us. Cause us to cross streets or run screaming when we hear them called out at a deli or they pop up on the calendar. 13. 6-6-6. 1040. (Oh no, the taxman cometh!!!)<\/p>\n
And then there is this one: 44.<\/p>\n
Hear it? Despicable. Slimy. Terrifying. <\/p>\n
The last one is the number of years I\u2019m turning this week. And for some stupid reason, that stupid number is getting to me. Intimidating me. It\u2019s like it carries weight. Baggage. More so than his cousin 43, or even some of his more advanced relatives like 46 or 47. <\/p>\n
Why? Why is it that some numbers \u2014 and especially ages \u2014\u00a0do this to us? Bring added significance or added pressure. Or a special feeling of doom!<\/p>\n
When I tell people the number I\u2019m turning, I say it with disdain and contempt \u2014\u00a0a little bit of trepidation. A shiver curls up and down my spine.
\n<\/p>\n
I just don\u2019t like it. I don\u2019t want to be it. It sounds \u2026 \u201cmature.\u201d Advanced. Like you\u2019re getting somewhere you don\u2019t want to go. \u201cAll aboard the train to Fiftyville \u2026 Next stop: reading glasses, back pain and plaid golf pants.\u201d<\/p>\n
Stupid number. <\/p>\n
I don\u2019t feel it. I feel great! I feel young and youthful and like I still have the world ahead of me. <\/p>\n
I led a bunch of college students on a volunteer project to help out at the Horse Haven Ranch last weekend. We were assigned the duty of busting up a 10X10 slab of concrete so they can expand a horse grazing area. We were presented two sledgehammers \u2014 one a 20-pounder \u2014\u00a0and told to get \u2018a bustin\u2019. \u201cWhat, no dynamite?\u201d I asked, looking reluctantly at the mighty sledge that seemed to weigh about the same as I do. \u201cWe have to lift this thing above our heads!?! It\u2019s inhumane!\u201d<\/p>\n
But along with my younger counterparts, I swung that thing until we beat the pitiful slab into manageable bits and pulverized rocks. Ha-ha! Take that, concrete. <\/p>\n
I felt like a strong man. A young man. One who isn\u2019t (cue blood-curdling scream) about to be 44.<\/p>\n
My hands hurt the next day. In fact, my poor, numb knuckles struggled to grip my toothbrush. There was a funny pain in my lower back that seemed to be tapping something in Morse Code (W-H-A-T-W-E-R-E-Y-O-U-T-H-I-N-K-I-N-G-M-O-R-O-N-?) Maybe I had been kicked by a horse and hadn\u2019t realized it? <\/p>\n
\u201cDang, I\u2019m getting old,\u201d I said into the mirror. <\/p>\n
Then I reminded myself: Your back hurts because bustin\u2019 up concrete is back-breaking work. If it wasn\u2019t, they wouldn\u2019t need you and a bunch of college kids to take out your pent-up aggression on it. <\/p>\n
So, I\u2019ve decided I\u2019m not going to let 44 scare me. I\u2019m assigning it to the harmless, youthful and fun-to-be-around bin. It\u2019s nothing but a toddler\u2019s age \u2026 if you\u2019re starting to get double vision. Which reminds me: where did I put those reading glasses?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Stupid numbers. Why do some matter more than others? Shake fear into us. Terrorize us. Cause us to cross streets or run screaming when we hear them called out at a deli or they pop up on the calendar. 13. 6-6-6. 1040. (Oh no, the taxman cometh!!!) And then there is this one: 44. Hear it? Despicable. Slimy. Terrifying. The last one is the number of years I\u2019m turning this week. And for some stupid reason, that stupid number is getting to me. Intimidating me. It\u2019s like it carries weight. Baggage. More so than his cousin 43, or even some of his more advanced relatives like 46 or 47. Why? Why is it that some numbers \u2014 and especially ages \u2014\u00a0do this to us? Bring added significance or added pressure. Or a special feeling of doom! When I tell people the number I\u2019m turning, I say it with disdain and contempt \u2014\u00a0a little bit of trepidation. A shiver curls up and down my spine.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[571,557],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1557","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-2017-nutshells","category-getting-old-er-older"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1557","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1557"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1557\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1558,"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1557\/revisions\/1558"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1557"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1557"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nutshellcity.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1557"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}