I am tip-toeing—or perhaps lurching—toward the age of 50. Whatever it means to be middle-aged, I am indisputably now well within that range. This stage of life has introduced some new trials, new difficulties, and new indignities, many of them related to a body that is no longer what it once was. But this stretch of time has also introduced some blessings.
Among those blessings is a sense of realism about myself that may have been missing in my younger years. I increasingly know who I am and, of equal importance, who I am not. I have a deeper understanding of what I am capable of and what I am incapable of. I have learned what I can expect of myself and what will only ever be beyond my capacity.
When I was young I aimed for the stars and honestly thought I was capable of reaching them. I modeled my life after luminaries and saw no reason why I couldn’t match or even surpass them. My ambitions were as great as my assessment of my own abilities. My energy was very nearly boundless. Such is the charming naiveté of youth.
But through many false starts, through
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