I’m 40, but I’m Not Dead Yet

I survived 14,600 days on earth without smoking pot, getting pierced, or getting tattooed.

“I’m not dead yet!”

Today, I turned 40. For a few months, I’ve thought about writing one of those “40 Things I’ve Learned After 40 Years of Living” posts. But those are actually kind of annoying, and honestly, 40 lessons would be painful for me to write, and painful for you to read.

In our culture, at least, reaching a “milestone age” seems to make people feel the need to share big, profound insights; little nuggets of hard-earned wisdom for others. But after going back and forth about it a few times, I’ve decided that I don’t really feel like giving out advice on my 40th birthday.

Partly because the older I get, the less confident I am in giving advice at all. I’ve noticed that the people most eager to dispense advice are often the least qualified.

Meanwhile, social media is overflowing with “life hacks” for marriage, parenting, money, and more. I hate that crap.

I don’t ask divorced people for marriage advice. I don’t ask childless people for parenting advice. I don’t ask broke people for financial advice.

The people with the best advice are usually the ones least willing to speak up. They’re too humble to proclaim that they have something smart to say that you’d want to hear.

The ones who’ve influenced me usually had to be coaxed, and even then, they weren’t so decisive. “You might try this,” or “This worked for us,” they’d say. I appreciate this.

So, I’m not really here to tell other people what to do or how to do it.

Having said that… today, I sit in a coffee shop, looking back on four decades of life, almost twenty years of marriage, and five kids, and I do have a few thoughts I think are worth saying out loud.

People often talk about life in “chapters.” That made sense to me until now. But reaching 40 feels less like the end of a chapter, and more like the end of a whole book. So, today, it’s time to close it up, bind it, send it to the publisher, and call it “Volume One.”

After 40 years of living, if each page in my book were one day, today, I’ve reached page 14,600. That is hard for me to comprehend. As I wrap my mind around this, here are five big thoughts, taken from the first book of my life: Ron Stauffer, Vol. I.

Five Big Thoughts on My 40th Birthday

#1: Some words you say will echo in eternity. You won’t know which ones.

When I worked at a diner in 2004, I was on the closing crew one night until after midnight. After we were done, I walked back to my car with a coworker. We talked in the parking lot for a few minutes, and then I invited her on a date in a very light-hearted way, almost as an afterthought.

“I’m pretty hungry,” I said. “I’m going to IHOP to get some pancakes. Wanna come along?”

She smiled at me, paused, and responded.

“I have some time…” she said, almost reluctantly.

That coworker has been my wife for almost 20 years now.

We had no idea back then that this little exchange would be etched in our memories forever. Many times, I’ve pondered just how strange it was that this moment was the beginning of our friendship, which later turned into a romantic relationship, then a marriage, and eventually five kids.

I wish that I had said something else to her, and I really wish she had said something else in return.

In other words, if I could write my love story, it would look and sound nothing like this.

But it is what it is.

Those words shared between two coworkers in a freezing cold parking lot outside a 1950s diner, spoken off the cuff, are what we will remember forever. I didn’t know it at the time, though. I couldn’t have.

To this day, my wife and I jokingly repeat this exchange all the time. If I want to take her out on a date, I’ll say: “I’m hungry. Wanna get pancakes at IHOP?” and in a coy, teasing manner, she’ll say, “I have some time.”

That is a pleasant memory of a happy time, but the same thing can happen when tragedy strikes, too.

When my brother died unexpectedly of a heart attack at age 18, everyone in my family asked themselves, “What was the last thing I said to him?”

We all tried to remember our respective “final conversations” with him with mixed success. Since it was such a shocking and sudden death, most of us have a sentence or two in our minds that we’ll never forget. But none of us knew that our words to him then would be our very last.

This happens in life, for good or ill. You never know which words you say will last forever—until it’s too late.

#2: At 40, it’s hip to be square.

My whole life, I’ve made safe, conservative choices, especially when it comes to my body. I’ve rejected almost every single form of “cool behavior,” and it turns out that now, I’m actually the rebel.

People sometimes say that everything eventually comes around full circle, and I think that’s true here. On paper, at least, I sound kind of boring… the kind of guy that bullies used to mock:

• I’ve only slept with one woman (the one I married)

• I’ve never smoked a cigarette

• I’ve never tried marijuana

• I’ve never had any piercings

• I’ve never dyed or bleached my hair

• I’ve never gotten a tattoo

• I’ve never tried any recreational drugs of any kind

You know what’s weird about all of this? These choices make me the odd man out.

To be clear, I am not necessarily saying this makes me better than other people. I am saying that the older I get, the more it seems I’m the only one I know who hasn’t done anything crazy like this.

The marijuana thing is bizarre: it was an illegal drug for most of my life. Growing up, “weed” was something that naughty teenagers smoked in order to be rebellious. Today, it’s people older than me who do it.

When I see bands like Rush and ZZ Top in concert, weed smoke fills the air, and it’s the people my parents’ age who are “taking a toke” while I stand there and choke.

(Also, when I signed up to volunteer at my police department years ago, the polygraph examiner hammered me OVER AND OVER about marijuana use—he just could not believe that I’d never used the stuff.)

This is a total mind-bender to me: today, the people most likely to smoke marijuana aren’t my age: they look like balding grandparents with beer bellies. That is a totally wild thought.

Body modification is another great example of how weird this has become.

Not a whole lot of 40-year-old men I know today have pierced ears. But a bunch of them did during their teenage years, and you can still see their old piercing scars today.

Similarly, when I was growing up, tattoos were the markings of bad guys: dangerous, scary, men with big beards who were members of motorcycle gangs. Now, you’re just as likely to see a tattoo on a skinny girl with curly blonde hair who works as a barista and wears a trucker cap that says “Jesus Is My Homeboy.”

Seriously, I see more tattoos these days on newly expectant moms showing off their pregnant bellies on Instagram than I do from tough guys who ride Harleys. Even if I had no moral qualms about tattoos, it would come across as pathetic if I got one today—my mother-in-law has a bunch of tattoos all over her arms and shoulders.

If I tried to be a badass by getting tattooed now, my kids would probably laugh at me and say, “Hey, everybody, Dad’s such a tough guy—he almost looks like Mema.”

I see tattoos today and remember what Ozzy Osbourne, the king of tattoos, said:

“If you want to be a fucking individual, don’t get a tattoo. Every fucker’s got one these days.”

Thanks, Ozzy. I am a true rebel in my factory-original, unmarked, unpierced body.

#3: I wish I could do one thing really well instead of knowing how to do 100 different things a tiny bit.

Over the years, I’ve gotten to try, experience, and participate in a lot of things. In other words, I’m a “dabbler.” I’ve dabbled in a lot of things:

Wrestling, track and field, swim team, scuba diving, snorkeling, surfing, hiking, canoeing, hang gliding, kayaking, fencing, gymnastics, falconry, singing opera, choral music, Christmas Caroling, playing the piano, guitar, trumpet, tuba, and euphonium, golf, frisbee golf, rock climbing, home brewing beer, bowling, snowboarding, shooting, camping, fishing, origami, cross-stitch, tap dancing, musical theater, whitewater rafting, flamenco dancing, riding a motorcycle, …and more than I can list here.

I’m not especially good at any of them. I’ve just dipped my toe into the waters with most of them. This makes me well-rounded and excellent at small talk with strangers, but it’s also extremely annoying.

What is the thing I’m REALLY good at?

I don’t know. I don’t think I have one.

Take bowling, for example. I like bowling. I’ve done it many times in my life. But I’m not very good at it. My father-in-law is an excellent bowler, though. He was part of a bowling league for many years and has won awards and trophies and things like that.

This makes him fun to go bowling with. He’s really good, and he knows the techniques and the rules. Any time I go bowling with Dad, I know I’m going to lose to him. That’s kind of annoying, but it’s also fun. I can ask him questions about it, and he’s a super-whiz at mental math, so he always knows exactly who’s ahead and what we need to win. I like having him on my team.

“Ellis is a good bowler” is something people can say, objectively. It’s just true.

What would people say about me? Am I good at anything?

“You… like hats?”

There’s a scene in the movie “Julie and Julia,” about Julia Child, where Paul and Julia are at dinner, discussing what she could do with her free time because she’s bored, doesn’t work, and has no kids.

• Julia: “I saw a notice on the bulletin board at the embassy for hat-making lessons.”

• Paul: “You like hats…”

• Julia: “I do… I do… I do.”

I feel like this all the time. When Paul says, “You like hats,” his voice lingers in the air, fading inconclusively. He’s stating a fact, but it's phrased more like a question.

“You… like… hats?” He’s almost asking.

“I do,” Julia says three times, slowly, trying to convince herself.

What’s wrong with hats? Wouldn’t it be good to learn how to make hats?

She wishes this were compelling, but it just isn’t. She could make hats—she doesn’t hate the idea. But she doesn’t love it either.

I’m like that. At 40, I have no idea what I like, what I’m good at, or what to do with myself.

This is very annoying.

I feel like I’m Julia, asking myself, “Should I take hat-making lessons? Do I like hats?”

I’ve met people whose lives are so much simpler than mine. In all honesty, I used to look down on people like that, but the older I get, the more I wish I were like them.

Take people like my father-in-law: he’s been a plumber his whole life. He’s really good at bowling. He likes baby back ribs. Ask anybody who knows him to describe him, and that’s probably what they’d say.

He’s a very simple guy: plumbing, bowling, ribs.

That’s it.

I wish I could say the same about me sometimes.

#4: I don’t know what to do for a living.

These days, I build websites and do digital marketing and web accessibility consulting for a living. It’s good—it supports my wife and kids.

To me, it’s like hatmaking: I could do it… I do do it… But I don’t love it.

If I woke up tomorrow morning and someone said, “Ron, you get to choose a new career now. Forget everything you’ve done in the past; you can start from scratch,” I would have absolutely no idea what to pick.

I would definitely not do what I’m doing now. But I don’t know what it would be.

This is part of a greater midlife crisis I’ve had for a few years, but the “career choice question” is truly vexing right now: what would I do if I could?

I have a business mentor, a woman I meet with once a month, and she’s been prodding me to try to think big about questions like this. But I kind of hate it: my life is so constrained that it’s almost painful to truly try to dream without limits and barriers.

What would I do if I could do anything? That’s an absurd question. It feels irresponsible to dream that big.

What would I do if I could do anything I wanted—anything at all—and money was no object? And I didn’t have to worry about financially supporting a family?

If I could do ANYTHING?

I’d want to be a world explorer, deep in the heart of the Amazon jungle, discovering unknown species of poison arrow frogs. I’d live in a hammock high up in the canopy of the rubber trees, wearing a headlamp and observing the behavior of nocturnal bats, capturing their mating dance at 2:00 in the morning with an infrared camera. I’d disappear from civilization for nine months at a time and take the mother of all showers when I finally returned to human contact.

I would be a scuba divemaster in the Caribbean Islands. I’d lead tours of divers from all over the world, photographing the coral reefs and working for tips. I’d spear lionfish and catch lobsters in the day, then grill them over a wood fire on the beach in the evenings, drinking cheap beers and listening to calypso music.

I might spend a summer working on a nutmeg farm, or in the sugar cane fields, distilling rum, then swimming in the lakes and showering in waterfalls that are abundant in the tropical islands off the coast of South America. When I get bored with that, I might head to Australia to trek across the outback in a Range Rover and study lizards and venomous snakes endemic to the barren sands of Lake Eyre.

I’ve thought of buying a motorcycle and starting at the top of Alaska, heading south, and spending a year or two riding all the way down to the tip of Tierra del Fuego. I’d stop in Buenos Aires and take Tango lessons, then meet some Gauchoes in the Uruguayan Pampas and learn the secrets of grilling Churrasco steak. I’d make podcast episodes and videos along the way and write a book about my experience.

But alas, I can’t do just ANYTHING. All of these are impossible to do with a wife and kids.

My wife often reminds me: “You CHOSE to get married and have a family.”

This is correct. I did. I do not regret that. But I don’t like that these things (what I want vs. the life I chose) are at odds, at least for now.

I often think about the next chapter (or the “next book,” as I’ve said before). I’ve observed some absolutely insane transformations some men I know have accomplished over the years. It’s really something to see a person live a certain way for a decade or more, then completely change and reinvent themselves.

One of the most inspiring “second-act” stories I know is a friend of mine who was a father of two girls (with two different women), juggling a very complicated custody arrangement and working at a cell phone store when I met him.

A few years passed. He got a job in banking. He remarried. His new wife became pregnant with twins. After an upgraded career in finance, he decided to buy a vineyard in another country.

Going from being a single dad selling cell phones when I first knew him, he is now a married dad with two wonderful teenage girls, AND a new wife, AND two little baby boys, AND owns property AND sells wine internationally for a living.

OH MY GOODNESS, would I like a story like that. His life today is totally unrecognizable from what it was before.

I don’t need anything that drastic, per se—I don’t plan on getting remarried any time soon. But I do like the idea of starting over in a way that is completely unencumbered by what you’ve done and where you’ve been in the past.

Who knows: might I become a professor of literature in a school in Türkiye someday? Or a boat captain in Greece? A miner in Chile?

I don’t know, but I’m not ruling anything out anymore. The trick is to try to do two or more things at the same time that seem to conflict: (marriage/family) + (fun career) + (ability to actually make money).

I don’t know what that is yet, but I’m ready for it.

I don’t want to build websites forever. But I think going back to college again (after a long, complicated 16-year journey to get my first degree) is not going to happen. Trade school is probably out as well, even if I wanted to work with my hands.

But it is definitely time for the next thing.

#5: I do have some regrets, but I try not to obsess over them.

When I turned 35, I considered writing a list of all my regrets in life so far. After some thought, I came up with a short list—only about five or six in all, depending on how you count them. Some are private and personal, but there are three worth sharing here.

Big Regret #1

I regret that I listened when I was told as a teen that I couldn’t be a professional musician and a husband and father. I wish I’d just ignored that warning and barreled forward, full speed ahead.

As an adult, I’ve met a few musicians who are, in fact, able to make a living doing nothing but music. It’s extremely rare, but it does happen. I wish that had been me. I could have made enough as a musician if I’d wanted it badly enough… but I didn’t. I didn’t even try. I just gave up and moved on.

Big Regret #2

I regret that when my wife and I first got married, I didn’t immediately move us back to California, as I said I would. This was my original plan, but then we had a baby. With both our families living in Colorado Springs, having a baby in the same town made it seem like the logical conclusion was to say, “We should stay here, since grandma and grandpa can see the baby and help us if needed.”

In other words, it felt like the “responsible choice.” I should have taken immediate action and moved us away right after we got married. I waited too long, so we were stuck. We established ourselves and put down roots, so the longer we stayed, the harder it was to leave.

It took me 11 years to finally move my family away from that town, and I wish I’d done it sooner. It would have caused a fight, but I believe it would have been better for both of us in the long run.

Big Regret #3

I regret that I didn’t pursue music sooner, even when it was already apparent that I couldn’t do it as a full-time career. When I finally reached out to a professional opera teacher and said, “I’d like to take voice lessons,” it was one of the greatest things I’d ever done. Eventually, I did make it to “the big stage,” but it was too little, too late.

I could have taken it much further, which would have been a lot more rewarding and fun, and I could have been more prepared to do it as a hobby. But by avoiding music because it seemed like a waste of time (because it couldn’t pay the bills), I cut my passion much shorter than it needed to be.

Now that I think about it, I think almost every regret I have in life comes from listening too much to other people or trying too hard to please them.

I also think there’s a common denominator: most of my life regrets involve NOT doing something when I could have, rather than doing something I wish I hadn’t later, but that’s not a hard and fast rule.

At 40, I hope I now have the guts to just stand up and say to the world:

“I don’t care what other people think anymore. You no longer have power over me. I’ve proven that I can make good choices. I’m taking action, and you can’t stop me.”

I don’t know that I’m capable of that, since I still care way too much about what other people think of me, but I’m working on it.

In the end, regrets are unavoidable. Obsessing over them doesn’t have to be.

So, Happy 40th Birthday to me!

Ron Stauffer, Volume I is now finished… time to get started on Volume II.

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