On being 55

Another birthday whizzes by and in post covid times, it sometimes feels like time itself is on fast forward, as if the universe wants to skip by the terrible pandemic as quickly as possible and return to some level of normalcy. 

Being 55 means you're more prone to wallowing in nostalgia (my birthday treat was visiting the Museum of Computing in Swindon, an absolute rose-coloured glasses trip down 1K memory lane) but it also means you're more prone to wondering how you're going to make it to retirement, whether you can stomach another 10 or so years of what you've being going through job wise and maybe even home wise. 

I think about age a lot, am almost preoccupied with whether I've got to a place I want to be at (no) live at a place I feel settled in (no) and am doing something I always dreamed about doing (no no no). 

But I'm terrible at taking my own advice to others. That advice - "There's only one person who can make a change in your life, and that's you"

You get comfortable. You get lazy more like, but comfortable in your own skin - enough to not care that you should probably be doing far more heart-pumping exercise than you do, or you should skip that chocolate brownie and go for the healthy fruit salad instead. 

Friends and relatives who have embraced the healthy lifestyle, who run for fun, or who are utterly convinced that they have achieved all of the points raised above in their own lives don't really seem any happier or more content than I am, which is baffling considering how little effort I put into achieving those unattainable goals. 

For the time being though I'm thankful I've still got all my teeth, I'm thankful my eyesight isn't too atrocious and I'm definitely thankful that I can still get it up.