I'm Forty.
Pieces of my Mind #7
Today, I turn forty. That’s all. Thanks for reading!
I jest. I know that’s not what you want to hear. You’re one of those weirdos who have some misplaced reverence for numbers ending in fives and zeros—but to hell with, let’s say, 39. Why? I don’t know, but I know better than to think to question it. I’m forty, and you expect me to share a few wise words about my experience. So, this is for you.
God help you.
I’m forty, and that pisses off a lot of people. That’s a selling point for me, I think. Everyone who wanted me to fail or die or be as miserable as they are is really upset to hear that I’m forty—and that I’m happy.
Happiness is the biggest bastard of the emotions us distractible humans possess. For one, it’s the best emotion. No one wants to be mad or sad all the time. Well, some do, but that’s a whole other story. We want to be happy. It feels good. We like feeling good as it turns out, but it’s also one of the most fleeting and hardest emotions to grip our little greedy hands around. It’s hell of a lot easier being pissed off than it is to be happy. Ask me how I know.
I think much of the elusiveness of happiness is due to our misunderstanding of what it is. There’s many different kinds of happy. If a stranger pays for my lunch, that makes me one kind of happy. If they pay for my lunch when I’m hungry and without a dollar to my name, that’s a very different kind of happiness—one that is filling.
I’ve lived long enough to know that how I define my life isn’t necessarily a definition anyone else should be using. But I do think I’m closer than most to figuring out this whole happiness thing. The worthwhile stuff is happiness found through gratefulness. Gratitude is the best attitude. Put it on a bumper sticker.
Chili tastes better on a cold day. That’s gratitude working for you.
Another lesson I’ve pieced together over the years is that I don’t have to have an opinion about everything. There are things in the world that you can just let be and no one is worser off. More importantly, I learned that I don’t always have to talk.
We humans place a lot of value on how much noise someone makes with their mouth. We’ve made a direct correlation with the amount of gum slappin’ one does with the importance we place on what they say. Don’t believe me? When was a last time a politician answered a yes/no question with yes/no? Never. Instead, we’re treated with explosive diarrhea of the mouth as the meandering reply avoids answering the question at all costs—and we convince ourselves that the rambling non-answer is a better answer than yes/no!
And so I observed these people who never shut up, whose gift of gab I once envied. I listened to all the words and one day realized they didn’t have much to say. For all their words, they were the embodiment of the proverbial barking dog with no bite.
I’ve never been one for conversation unless I knew you intensely. Thank my autism, I guess. It use to bother me because we place so much value on people who have opinions about everything and their ability to spew those opinions like a shit volcano that ate too many deviled eggs.
As a happy, forty year old man, I just don’t care. Most people don’t get to see my vocal side because they think that I have nothing to say if I’m not a bloviating blowhard. They lose interest. I have plenty to say and speak most succinctly and authoritatively through my art and writing. But where I was once uncomfortable being quiet in a social gathering, I now understand that it’s not a me problem…
Some of the best times I’ve had were with other people who felt the same way I do, and so much was said by the few words spoken. These are the people I’ve chosen to surround myself. They are the highest effort, but the greatest reward.
Plus, the world as a whole is just too damn noisy.
My final lesson forged in surviving forty years on this mortal plane is that shortcuts never get you where you want to go.
Damn, is this a hard lesson.
Our brain is limited by the constraints of nature as much as the river weaving through the gorge—we take the path of least resistance every at every turn. This tendency was born out of our survival needs.
It’s smart for Grogg the caveman to build a trap for his food so as to conserve as many calories and resources as possible, but Greg the accountant will die behind his desk if he continues DoorDashing Taco Bell every day. Greg will die from taking the path of least resistance while Grogg will thrive and take Greg’s stuff (Grogg finds spreadsheets as useless as I do, however)!
I have different needs than Grogg. I have to worry about too much easily accessible food. And because there aren’t wolves in the streets despite my thinking that’d be a really cool world to live in, my aspirations and ambitions are completely foreign to Grogg. And yet, my brain is stuck caveman mode, looking for the easiest way…
I’ve learned to force myself into taking the path full of brambles, sudden drop offs, and hungry, hungry wolves every chance I get. Some days it damn near kills me-but I’ve never once regretted taking the hard path.
I come from a long line of life-hardened people who fought for everything they have. The least I can do is make two trips carrying in groceries—in the rain—rather than one overly burdensome load that ends in cans of soup rolling under the couch and smashed eggs just to save a few steps and stay a little dryer.
On a grander scale, I demand the highest level of excellence of craftsmanship and detail in my work. If I have to toss out twenty hours of work and start over, I do it. I do it again, too, if necessary. There is no option to give up and sulk or blame others.
Failure is always an option because failure teaches us everything we need to know. But quitting because it’s too difficult is never an option for me. The harder it gets, the harder I’m going to go. It can dig in it’s heels twenty feet deep, and I’ll stand strong in forty foot trenches.
I won’t back down until I’m six feet in the ground.
I’ve also lived long enough to know that sometimes the easy route is the smartest one. I’d much rather use a tool that’s already been made than make it myself. However, there’s a caveat; if the tool isn’t quite up to my specifications and standards, then I’d better get down to making one that’s right for me. A poor quality tool is never an excuse for poor workmanship.
Always be wary of the easy path.
There. Three lessons from living forty years on this radiated rock—a nice, round number just like you five and zero people like. But only because three is the best number. I mean, Goldilocks sipped three porridges and slept in three beds during her burgling spree, and the genie in the lamp and the cursed monkey’s paw both gave three wishes. Of course, Arabia has 1,001 nights and you can’t forget the twelve annoying drummer boys drumming…
It’s almost like every number has its place, and none are more important than the other. Maybe we shouldn’t look at numbers so much and instead celebrate every breath we take.
And with that little bit of sentimental nonsense, I’m Victor Ellison—a happy, quiet, and stubborn forty year old man.