Five. Oh.

Last month, I turned fifty. I'm a little disappointed. Most of my friends and coworkers are five to fifteen years older, and for many of them, fifty was one of those big deals in life, a time for intense reflection, of taking stock of triumphs and regrets. A few of them bought flashy cars and started dyeing their hair.

For me, passing this particular birthday milestone has been a little anti-climactic. Yeah, it's been a little weird to think that I'm now eligible to join the AARP, and I have found myself in moments of quiet reflection as I take stock of the events of my life. Still . . . perhaps it seems not such a big deal because I became a dad relatively late in life. Perhaps it's because I got married fairly late in life. Perhaps it's because I exercise for fitness, and not in competitive endeavors that spotlight any performance decline. Perhaps it's because I recently squared off against two of my twenty-something copilots in ping pong matches and waxed both of 'em. (Heh heh, but no, I'm not gloating.)

I dunno. I suppose that if I pondered and fretted long enough, I might dredge up some trauma attached to the event, but life throws us enough curve balls. I don't feel the need to add any drama or trauma to my time on this world.

For now, I'll stick with my little white Ford Focus. The gray hair? It can stay, too. It's part of me, and part of my story.

And I'm stickin' to it.