My birthday is March 11th, so, I’ve been 41 for two months. I keep forgetting that I’m not 40, like I’m still writing 2017 on my checks or something.

I’ve done a few of these posts now where I snap a picture of myself (the pattern of me off to the left with a backpack was accidental at first but is now intentional) and it occurs to me that I actually look like I’m in my early forties, which is crazy. I don’t mind it, though. I’ve always had this weird quirk in my appearance where I look young but people can still guess my actual age. I remember it happening in my early thirties.

“So, what are you, like…”

I bet they’re going to say twenty-eight…

“… like thirty-two?”

Shit.

“Um, yeah.”

“Yeah, I thought so. You look good, though.”

I suppose it’s just the round British face coupled with close proximity to a television, i.e. away from the sun, for the first twenty-two odd years of my life.

Now I have some wrinkles to go with the receding hairline. I look like an adult, not an old teenager. I kind of like it.

At 41 I clearly still don’t know how to smile in pictures, though.

Despite my scowl in the picture, I had a great day. It was one of those Fridays in the office when enough people leave early that you have a relaxing end to the day and you leave a little early yourself. I stopped by the picnic tables of my corner bar on the way home to enjoy some late afternoon sun and finish Steve Jobs (the book, a post about that will be forthcoming).

It’s a Friday night, my girlfriend is doing her own thing, and I’m left to just hang out alone in my apartment. I’m honestly just trying to time going to sleep just right so I can get to tomorrow morning. I’m looking forward to going for a run and then drinking coffee.

My Friday nights were like this far before I turned forty. They’ve been like this for so long that I won’t even make a sarcastic comment like, “Party!” Lazy Friday nights are God’s gift to those of us who made it out of our twenties (early thirties… eh, mid thirties).