Lordy, lordy, look who's 39.
Yes, today is my 39th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Mom.
Thirty-nine sounds like an 'old' age to be. I don't have the "oh my god, what have I done/will I do with my life, I need to leave my mark" panic that some people do around this point in their lives. The only regret or sadness I have is that my body has aged more than my mind. In my brain, I still feel like a twenty-seven year old (the pinnacle age to be, I suppose), but my body tells me otherwise. I'm the anti-Dorian Gray. Sometimes, I walk by a mirror and I think "who the hell is that old geezer?". And I think the regret is there because I still believe that I could reverse the trend. There's still time to get healthier.
So, it's not the "time's running out, when will I write that great novel" neuroses that occupies my mind. It's more a sighing of "I couldn't play a competitive set of tennis now".
The "write a novel, quick!" panic will likely strike next year when I turn four-oh-my-god. By that time, of course, I'll have completely given up the belief that I can still improve my body and physical health, and all I'll have left are frettings over more intellectual pursuits.