Youth in Reverse

I should have known it was a bad idea. But you can understand the temptation. Here I was, on the day I turned 39, with a chance to go out for dinner and a movie with my wife. Dinner and “Avatar” couldn’t work inside the babysitting time frame. So, in an ill-advised moment, we chose a shorter flick: the Michael Cera vehicle “Youth in Revolt.”

“Juno” it wasn’t. Have I seen worse? Yes. But not many, actually. These days, we get out so rarely that I wanted something much better, especially on my birthday. So why, might you ask, didn’t we choose one of those movies with all the Oscar buzz? It’s a good question, and I think the answer goes no further than the movie’s title: As I cling to one last year in my 30s, how could I pass up anything with the word “Youth” in it?

At 39, I certainly hope to have many more years ahead of me. And there are plenty of people who would still consider me “young.” But even so, there’s no way I can claim to be a “youth” anymore. Thirty-nine is a precarious place sandwiched in between young adulthood and middle age – a place where many of us find ourselves balancing careers, families, personal wellness and social lives. It’s an exciting age, one where the present is full of more things than we could ever accomplish, and the past contains more memories than our brains can recall. And the future – well, that feels exciting and a bit scary at the same time.

So when you turn 39 on a Sunday in 2010, you do a few things. For one, you spend some time with your family. You go to church together, make smoothies for the girls, and show them scary photos from your high school yearbook. You do the “Happy Birthday” song, the make-a-wish, the candle-blowing with their help, the photo, then the photo do-over ‘cause so-and-so’s eyes were closed. You talk with your parents, brother, friends and in-laws, and you read all the kind wall postings on your Facebook page. You do something for yourself – go for a run, buy yourself a few CDs, watch a little football. You also do laundry and dishes and clean up the house, because, well, life doesn’t stand still for you, pal. And then, finally, you welcome the babysitter with open arms, grab some alone time with the love of your life … and watch the worst film you’ve seen in years.

It’s all very beautiful and gratifying, in many ways. But still, as you stare at that movie screen and see a baby-faced, 21-year-old actor looking back at you, it’s easy to wonder where the time has gone. And, while we’re at it, when those aches and pains are coming. And when the gray hair will fall upon you like a dusting of snow. And, dare I think it, when you and the wife will find yourselves too tired to even bother with dinner and a movie. “Youth,” you said? Two tickets for the eight o’clock show, please.

Baseball-Reference.com shows that 18 men born in 1971 played Major-League Baseball last year. Just barely one player for every two teams. If you’re 39 years old and a professional ballplayer, you’ve probably got the word “retired” attached to your title.

Unless, of course, you have revolted – against aging, that is. As for me, I’ll take what life’s got in store. Bring on 39. Just give me a better movie next time, please.