mostly david ephgrave

This turning 41 lark is a bit of a funny one. While last year's birthday was one to be aware of, this year has made me a smidge more melancholy. Only a bit, though. I'm well aware of how these little emotional peaks and troughs fluctuate, and consequently, I try not to read too much into them. Reflection can be a poisoned chalice, and I've had a lot of reasons to look back lately, which were bound to affect me, so I'm trying not to overthink it. I try not to get too drawn into what doesn't matter now. The online world is a case in point. It only takes a quick browse of Instagram or Facebook to be confronted by at least three things that'll make you feel shit, particularly if you're not in the habit of carefully cultivating your social media presence. You start being bothered by stuff you'd never consider in real life.  "Why wasn't I invited to this terrible event I'd despise if I'd attended?" Why does everyone look so happy in this ...

It wasn't until I cleaned my bathroom mirror today that I realised how much I'd been relying on the Robert Redford-like blurred smudge that had developed on it to hide a multitude of sins. It was like I'd switched from low-to-high-def in just a few wipes.  At least I was living in unwitting denial before I reached for the duster and polish; now I've been brought up to speed in double-quick time. Within minutes I've been thrust into how the other half lives: those poor bastards who are subjected to my face daily; I pity them, I won't lie: it was a shock. I didn't know I'd grown so haggard. Consequently, having my reflection thrown so suddenly into focus was a game-changer akin to Bruce Willis realising he's dead; I may as well have stumbled across a partially-submerged Statue of Liberty for the damage it did to me. No-one told me about the bags under the eyes, nor the grey hairs. No-one said I'd start putting on weight. And yet here it all i...