Well, here we are. Another year older, another year wiser—or at least that’s what they say to make you feel better about creaking knees and random body aches. I’ve officially reached that sweet spot in life where I have no clue what my kids are saying anymore (“No cap,” “Skibidi,” and “Gyat” sound like a foreign language) and a free birthday pizza feels like winning the lottery.
This morning, I creaked and groaned like an old wooden staircase getting out of bed, shared my cup of coffee with my love, and pondered what it really means to be 43. Spoiler alert: it’s a mix of comedy, gratitude, and a pinch of denial.
Let’s start with the obvious: The body aches are here in full force. Every joint and muscle now demands acknowledgment. At 43, sleeping wrong can ruin my whole week, standing up involves a mandatory grunt of effort, and the mere suggestion of going out after 9 p.m. feels as gross and unappealing as leaving dishes in the sink overnight.
Secondly—my gray hair didn’t show up uninvited. My 14-year-old stepson and 12-year-old daughter sent the RSVP years ago. Those two have contributed to every silver strand with their drama, chaos, and what I like to call “creative parenting challenges.” Kicked walls, teenage tantrums, and "Bruh, oh my god" are practically the soundtrack of my life. If stress had a color palette, mine would be “Salt & Pepper: Parent Edition.” Thankfully, my hair is blonde, so at least I can pretend the gray is just a natural highlight. 😂
Thirdly- I've noticed the subtle but undeniable signs of aging creeping in, and that hearing loss and forgetfulness are my new best friends. My fiancée asks me the same question three times, and I’m convinced I’m either developing superhuman patience or just can’t hear her anymore.
But here’s the thing—this birthday isn’t just about looking back. It’s about looking forward. In just three months, I’ll be a dad again. Let me tell you, the excitement and terror are running neck and neck in this race. Being 43 and starting over feels like signing up for a marathon without realizing its uphill the entire way. Will I have the energy? Will I survive the sleepless nights?
It’s scary, yes. But it’s also exhilarating. This is my second chance to soak up the baby years, to live in those little moments I might’ve rushed through the first time around. My future wife and I joke about needing a tag team to survive diaper duty, but deep down, we know how lucky we are to get to do this together.
For now, I’ll celebrate my 43rd with a free BBQ sandwich (thank you, Mission BBQ!) and an Old Chicago birthday pizza that tastes like victory. I'll embrace the gray hairs, continue my dad jokes, and pray I age like fine wine or at least like tolerable whiskey.
Here’s to 43 years of wisdom, laughter, body aches, and a brand-new adventure on the horizon. Cheers to the chaos—and to the coffee that makes it survivable.
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