At 40, a man living in the United States has used up more than half of his statistical years; the average man dies at around 75 years old in this country.

That’s a lot of years! It’s not enough; I’d like to keep going, ad infinitum. Tons to experience, plenty left to learn. But I’ll take what I can get. It’s a hell of a lot more years than even very recent generations could have hoped for.

I tend to think of age a bit like I think of generational labels like Boomer and Millennial and Gen Z: they’re shorthand for rough, blurry trends, but are seldom accurate for any individual human being.

I like the idea that while there are periods in which we tend to do certain things—people in their 20s jump into the workforce, people in their 60s start meandering toward retirement—there are absolutely no rules about when (or whether) we buy a house, consume ayahuasca, find a partner, take up knitting, go to school, or anything else.

No one can stop you if you want to learn to code in your 80s, and you have every right to start a business in your teens and not date till your 30s.

This chronological lawlessness appeals to me because I’ve always found pleasure in doing things at (statistically) irregular times and in oddball combinations, and I fully intend to continue doing the same, however many years I ultimately tally.

Things do change as we get older, of course; physically, mentally, socially. My needs and priorities have shifted, my lifestyle has iterated, and my body has thrown me all manner of curveballs. I have every reason to think there’ll be more of the same moving forward, too. Probably a lot more.

And that’s both the least surprising thing ever and the most wonderful gift, as these tweaks to the model (and our expectations) really do keep things interesting and force us to grow in directions we didn’t even know were options earlier in life.

I had some things easier in my 20s than I do on this, the first 24 hours of my 40s. But I would not give up what I’ve done and experienced and learned, all the growth I’ve measured and upsets I’ve managed, if offered the chance to revert back to that earlier version of myself.

It’s no contest: I like who I am now a lot better than who I was back then. And that evolution is the direct result of all the good and bad, the adventures and struggles, the pleasures and moments of intense, nearly unbelievable pain.

I hope against hope that I can say the same when I look back at my 40-year-old self from the lofty heights of 50, 60, 70, and maybe even 80—if I manage to defy the statistics.

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