And so another birthday passes and I find myself one year further away from being young enough not to know any better.
Is there a specific point where we stop celebrating the age we have become and see it more as an albatross around our necks than a badge of honour?
I remember the time when I would spend the night before my birthday unable to sleep, as excited as I was on Christmas Eve.
I’d wonder whether or not that new Ghostbusters action set or Sega Master System game would be there the next morning – and it was even better than Christmas because THESE presents came from my parents.
There comes a point though where, as you drift off, you try and keep alive a glimmer of hope that the past who-knows-how-many-years will have been a dream (a la Bobby Ewing) and you’ll wake up 21 again.
There must be an age where the balance shifts between being desperate to be older and being desperate to be younger.
Perhaps I just haven’t embraced getting older yet.
Maybe there is a point where you just don’t care any more and you accept the onward march of time as a travelling companion rather than a bitter rival.
Maybe that’s why they say life begins at 40?
Maybe I’ll reach that particular landmark and have a change of tack but, for now, I count every new grey hair and stare in the mirror to see whether my brow is more furrowed than it was the day before.
This is all silly of course. My little niece popped in for a visit at the weekend and, at seven months old, she hasn’t yet been affected by the cynicism and concern that getting older brings.
When she’s old enough to ask, “Uncle Gregg, what’s it like when I grow up?”, I’ll tell her to enjoy every single minute – and just keep on dying her hair so nobody knows she’s getting grey!