Tomorrow I Turn 40

Tomorrow I will be 40 years old. I thought I would be dead tomorrow. More on that in a minute. 

However, this morning I’m reflecting. I’m told that’s okay to do at 40. So, I’m reflecting on playing Intellivision with Sean, playing basketball in my driveway with Donny and, eventually, flag football. Don and I used to then retreat to his barn. He’d bang on his set of drums. I’d noodle away on his cream-colored Fender Stratocaster. There were days we’d play Dungeons and Dragons with our friends Dennis and Bobby. 

There were the numerous moves around town my mother and step-father made. My step-father served in the U.S. Navy, but most of the time, we moved because we just couldn’t afford the rent wherever we stayed. That meant eight house moves all over the city of San Diego from ages 8 to 18. And there were plenty of moves before that (like Midway Island, Oxnard, California; and Pawtucket, Rhode Island) just because the Navy said so. 

There were Monte Vista and Point Loma High Schools. Drama classes and sleeping through some of them just to be able to go to work that night and earn a few bucks that my mother never allowed me to keep. A failed Algebra II class. Walking to Target for work. Riding east on San Diego’s University Avenue and west on El Cajon Boulevard over and over and over again (and again) with Michael. He wore shorts. I froze in the passenger seat. 

Spending the nights at Michael’s house so I didn’t need to endure what remained of my own home. Ten thousand VHS and beta movies, making bootleg copies of Robotech videotapes. Not knowing how many times one could repeat the lines from Delirious, 48 Hours, Star Wars or Blade Runner, but knowing that we knew how many there were to repeat. 

Seven or eight high school plays and just as many cast parties with Mike B. Trying to hip and cool, and realizing that a skinny, pimple-faced kid with no money and a dysfunctional background was just that. Three proms, though Diana would have nothing to do with me. And me hurting Valerie is a scar for her and me that will never heal. 

Immortal times with titanium skin, a heart that beat like a jackhammer and knowing absolutely everything that was worth knowing, thumbing a nose at anyone who believed he knew more than me. And points of awareness realizing that, yes, I could be dead by the time I’m 40.  And why continue on? What was worth having after 40? Youth raises these questions because youth can. 

Somewhere past the mercurial teenage times came 21 years of military life. Rides in fighter jets. Gliding in sailplanes. Soaring over category 4 hurricanes. Launching the first heavy bombers of the Iraq War. Secret missions in secret locations. Freezing flight lines. The baffling bureaucracy. The headache of rank. Somewhere in-between, losing two wives. Beating cancer. Discovering emotional, physical and mental demons. 

And all of this is boring you. I know. So, there’s this. 

Turning 40 feels less important than turning 35. There was metamorphosis for me turning 35. And 36, too, believe it or not. Both ages cemented the idea that, indeed, I was an adult. I wouldn’t, in fact, die or be killed before I turned 40. My antics, bad decisions or a horrific surfing accident would not give friends that very good story to tell over tall glasses of good beer. Alas. 

Forty is, well, 40. Nothing more than a round number. It further cements the idea that none of those things I mentioned before are coming back. Looking forward is the only way to look. Those wonderful, crystalline memories are important to me. I respect them. I love them. They are a part of me, but a part, not the whole. A resonating HDTV look at my past. Some I miss. Some I don’t. Lives and tides, the turn of the clock, and all that. 

Me is now. Me is a father and a writer. Me is struggling to become a comic-book writer. Me is wondering what time the TSV 1860 game starts on Sunday. Me wants to ensure his six-hour ride to western Germany will ensure my veteran’s claim will be taken care of. Me scratches in odd places. Me still listens to The Who at the same time dancing to Flo Rida with my wife and daughter. Me still feels and acts 24, though my knees act 75 and my body sits somewhere around 30. 

Tomorrow I will be 40 years old. It will feel a lot like today. So, I’ll concentrate on today and let you think about tomorrow.

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