At 51, I ponder how much time I have left on this planet (or any other for that matter).  I’m not referring to the tinfoil hat wearers who await return of the mother ship, but rather to mortality.  I’m certain many have had a similar thought.

I compare the first 25 years of our lives to Spring.  We’re born, raised, and dependent upon parents to provide our basic needs and our screaming adolescent “wants”.  Twenty-five is a fitting age to end life’s first season because The Google reveals our brains require this long to fully develop, but my money conscious man-logic concludes the age-related seasonal change is triggered by a reduction in car insurance premiums.

Summer happens from 26 to 50.  We’ve found a mate, a career we hate, and produced offspring who’ll contribute to the betterment of mankind – or at least be pretty.  Fortunately, ours are both smart and pretty, but they’re still finding their way.

In early Summer, we’re at the peak of health and later on our earning potential follows suit.  The dark middle ages of Summer (35-45yrs) bring popping joints, and a denial that we’re getting older as we wonder why our pants have shrunk.  The little laugh lines on our face are no longer funny, and serve as a gut-punch reminder that aging is one of life’s crappiest jokes.

Summer is gone and with it my youth, but Father Time and I march on with strides of purpose.  I welcome Fall, because I’ll be able to spectate our daughters’ Spring and reminisce about my own.  I dread Winter because once easy tasks will become even less so, as my body has a way of reminding me that I’m no longer a Spring (or Summer) Chicken.  However, that won’t stop me from trying to be one.  Cheers!