the big four oh

40 is too early to write an autobiography so I won’t attempt that here.  While it may be the end of an era and possibly not too early for some people, I would still have to deal with one tiny technical problem – namely, I haven’t really done anything much to write about.  I am not 1 short of 100 international centuries, I have never been crowned the sexiest man alive by any fashion magazine, I haven’t founded a billion dollar start-up, I haven’t won a Nobel (hell – not even an Oscar) and it seems highly unlikely that I will become the PM of my country (of any country, really) or the UN Secretary General in my immediate lifetime – what’s more, I don’t even stay in an apartment complex so any post of honorary chairman of the residents’ association will have to be filled up by someone else.  Of course, that is not to say that I haven’t achieved anything at all in my last 40 years.  Yes, I once won a large bottle of a popular soft-drink brand in a mini-golf putting tournament during my school fete when I was in the 4th or 5th grade, but how much can one milk that – after the first 30-40 pages one will need something else to write about as well, won’t one?

So, frankly, an autobiography at this stage is out of the question, and if you have been eagerly reading on after the first sentence in the fond hope that I may have changed my mind during the course of the last paragraph I am sorry but you must continue to remain disappointed.  It is a hard burden to bear no doubt, but someone has to bear it and better you than me (or I – if my Wren and Martin is to be believed).  If you are still reading this then I must really commend you on your patience and optimism and I have no doubt it will be amply rewarded if you enjoy reading stories filled with feelings of horror and doom, because that’s exactly what I have been feeling for the last few days as the big four oh approaches stealthily, like a hungry lioness of the wide African Savannah advancing on a helpless little antelope that is blissfully unaware of the impending danger.  The only difference between that helpless little antelope and me (apart from the number of legs) is that I am painfully aware of the impending danger.  They say time and tide wait for no man and I assume I am no different as far as time or tide are concerned.  That the 40th birthday will arrive I have not an iota of doubt in my mind, unless a lightning bolt from the heavens arrives first (which given the recent thunderstorms we have had does seem like a possibility, although remote).

Actually I don’t so much mind turning 40 but what I am scared about is the almost universal obsession in the minds of my fellow travelers along life’s journey that I must enjoy this day.  Many of my readers must have themselves passed through this point of no return along their respective journeys and may identify with the sentiment.  Phrases like “naughty at 40″ are bandied about freely by the people who are planning your surprise party, and talk about cakes designed to resemble parts of the (female, in my case) anatomy, and/or racy performances, abound.  The general idea seems to be to gather together a bunch of people (all of whom are either the same age or within a reasonable tolerance thereof) and try to embarrass the person in whose honor the party is being thrown, in celebration of the fact that they have finally turned a corner that they can never hope to turn again (unless someone invents time travel soon) and moreover, a corner that, in direct contravention of all standards of human decency, is situated at the top of a large hill from where, consequently, it is all downhill.  Now I have nothing against cakes or racy performances but I prefer them to be more traditional in shape, like round or square (at least the cakes), so as to avoid eliciting giggles in members of the opposite gender.  Before any irate members of the gender in question start shooting me nasty comments let me clarify that I have nothing against giggling either – just that I don’t want my birthday cake to be held responsible in any way for that.  And of course racy performances are most welcome too but they must be accompanied by a statutory warning that the person concerned may then not be held responsible for any subsequent actions arising (in a manner of speaking) therefrom.

People who are planning a surprise party for me are advised to make a note of the above.  Please also note that I will not dance (in any shape or form whatsoever) because it pains both my joints and my sense of aesthetics, and no amount of cajoling or pleading will move me from my position – which will be on the overstuffed sofa that is closest to both the beer cooler and the snacks counter.  Also, guests may please be informed well in advance that I will not get up individually to hug each one of them, so they may want to think of batching up their hugs while I am already on my feet for something else, or forgo the pleasure altogether.  Exceptions will only be made for pretty guests of the opposite gender, or guests bearing expensive gifts irrespective of gender.  The party must end (at least for me) the moment I fall asleep or pass out – please do not try to wake me up in a misguided effort to continue the revelry.   And of course, the music must be suitable to the mood of the party.  Needless to say, please do not attempt to smuggle any karaoke into the party because I will not sing a single bar – bars are meant to be leaned on while nursing one’s beer and not sung, and certainly not by people whose voices may well do justice to badly tuned chainsaws, like me (or I).  If you agree to all the above, by all means do think of planning my party but I must warn you -

the lightning bolt is not selective.

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