I’m 43. I guess I’m halfway through my life. I’ve done lots. I’ve travelled the world. I’ve had many jobs, many lovers, many rashes… and now I’m settled down with 3 children in a normal house on an ordinary street with a mortgage and a dog.
I am middle-aged. The age where I’m surprised by my own farts and I make a weird grunting noise when I get out of a chair. The age when I should be doing regular exercise and eating clean, instead of scoffing chocolate brownies in the bath. The age where I should know what I want and be content with what I’ve got.
I should be satisfied, be leaping out of bed each morning with enthusiasm, excited as to what another sunny day will bring.