It is hard to accept growing older, at least for me. It is not a pleasurable process nor concept. Harder yet to accept is the fact that my son is on his way to forty. Yes, he’s a pretty long way away from it right now, but turning thirty-one pushes him past being just out of his twenties. One small year, but it feels like a big step into his thirties.

What a different life we have both led. At his age, I had a one-year-old son, I had been married for ten years, and had been with the same woman for (mostly) fifteen years. My son is single, never been married, no children (a good thing when you haven’t been married) and is not in a relationship (not that he wouldn’t like to be in one). He is living on his own and has been for ten years, I think. I lived with my parents until I got married and then lived with my wife.

Yet with all those differences, we both seem to have wound up in the same place at the same time. Living alone, not sure where our lives are going, living pretty much day-to-day, trying to make ends meet. I can accept the fact that I have pretty much fucked up my own life, but it pains me that my son is still struggling to find his path in life. It is my sincere birthday wish for him that the light comes on and things fall into place for a happier now and tomorrow.