So, today is my fortieth birthday. The big 4-0. Supposedly it’s all downhill from here. I guess I’ll find out.

I don’t really feel that old. Or, rather, I don’t feel any older than I have for a long time. With the Marfan stuff, my joints have been aching for quite some time anyway.

The truth is, I’m happy I made it. I don’t have any of the big life-threatening diseases or issues–it’s not like I’m some kind of survivor. But some part of myself, that bit of weirdness that occupies the back my mind, has always wondered if I’d make it this far. My dad didn’t–why should I? Irrational, I know, but true.

Plus, I’m in a pretty good place. I’ve got a decent job for decent pay. I’m married to my soulmate. I’ve got good friends and great family. Like the great philosopher Walsh says, I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do. But really, life’s been good so far.

So, forty’s here and I’m actually pretty happy about it. Go figure.