The week I turned 49, I got a physical and told my doctor that I'd developed a nagging pain in my shoulder to accompany the chronic pain in my groin, that the muscles in the sole of my right foot seized on the regular.
But of course it forced me to assess my lesser-than-they-should-be assets. What I hadn't predicted, though, was the dread of filling out a durable health-care power-of-attorney form (autopsy? organ donation?).
Let's keep it 100: Nobody celebrates year 49 with a surprise bash or a vacation to far-flung exotica or a startling makeover. Forty-nine passes with, at best, a tempered acknowledgment of its marking the last year of the 40s.
Ever since I was knee-high to grown folks, soon as I turned an age, I'd contemplate the next one. Turn nine, what will ten feel like? Turn 21, how underwhelming will 22 feel, how overwhelming 25?
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