By Randy Capps
What is old, anyway? I can remember being a teenager and thinking that 25 was old. I remember being a new parent at that age, nudging the adjective back a few years to 40.
As I tiptoe my way toward 50, I think that might actually be it.
Sure, compared to a tree or a building, 50 isn’t that old. It’s only five decades, which is nothing to a lover of history.
Of course, the hospital in which I was born no longer exists. That might not be a good sign.
I fretted a bit about turning 30. Forty wasn’t that big a deal, really, and as I approach a birthday typically marked with jokes about mortality, I’m OK with it.
I think about friends that either didn’t get to 50, or aren’t here anymore to make fun of me about it.
My hair fell out long ago, I can’t see as well as I used to and my video game skills get a little worse with every passing year of the FIFA series.
But I’m still here. I get to spend my days working with my wife and best friend. I have the privilege of watching my son flourish as a young man. And we all have the fun of riding the rollercoaster ride that is small business ownership with JNOW Media.
Robert Frost wrote that “the afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.” I like that.
So, bring on the black balloons and the big 5-0.
I’m happy I lived long enough to see it.
