39

So, another season has passed. I find myself staring ahead to forty, not so gracefully seeing 38 come and go. Thirty-nine now. Really? Shit. I hearken back to the time of invincibility and wonder just where the hell it went. Yes, now is the time where I still think about my penis all the time, only now instead of where it will park it shares concerns for prostate and intruding probes. Probes, that’s just a bad word. Perhaps worse is the prober. How do you tell someone, Hi…I probe for a living? That has to be a buzz kill at parties. And what’s the deal with prostate anyway, I always thought enlarging was a good thing.

One thing is for sure, I know little about aging with grace. But, if forty is the new 30, perhaps I get a re-do. Yes, another decade to lose the weight, love sincerely, expect less and give more. Maybe 39 isn't the enemy, maybe it is, but it is what it's made out to be. Preferably, probe free.