When you reach the age everyone accurately guesses it, it’s clear you’re running out of time.

It’s when you’ve reached that age—where everyone pins you; where the checkout gal doesn’t ask to see your ID, where the bouncer barely eyes you over as you walk on through—you haven’t the courage, or you haven’t the energy, anymore, to conquer the planet. As you might’ve, perhaps, five years ago. And if the desire still lingers—you’re fully aware—it’ll be twice as hard five years from now.

Or, so you’ve been led to believe.

Accomplish before thirty, or never at all. This is what you’ve heard. Out of so many mouths. A generality, to be sure. Yet, seemingly true, at least, in your case.

You keep starting over. Life for you is always starting over—though never in a “fresh start” sort of way. Who’s that dude ever rolling the boulder up the hill? His name should’ve been your name.

But here’s the real discovery: the best part of aging? Is the dulling of the senses. Truly.

After all, you’re in perpetual pursuit of feeling less—are you not? Sure, you want to know when you’re burning yourself; when you’re frostbiting yourself. Other than that—feelings? What’s the point?

So long as the blood pulses through, Nature will take its toll on your body. And you, for one, you’ll find yourself grateful. While everyone else is groaning arthritis, you’ll be smiling at all those past crushes that went nowhere; content with the black hole that once burned bright with too much undeserved adoration, and far too much lust.

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