Once upon a time, long long ago, my mother uttered words to me that had little meaning. She said that people have two options: They can grow old or they can die young. I’m sure it was in response to some insipid comment I had made about elderliness at the ripe age of eighteen. Consequently, the words didn’t resonate, not that much does at 18, butt I suppose they lingered. For in my fourth decade of life, they have returned as fuel for my constant retrospection about the past and consternation about the future.

She wasn’t the only one who warned me.

When I was twenty-eight, an “older” friend of mine – Ken, he was 42 at the time – told me that age doesn’t provide more answers. It brings more questions. Call me hardheaded, but I didn’t believe him either.

Of course, he was right. Actually, they both were right. Nowadays, I wade through a flood of questions, while noodling in a drought of answers. The years provoke self-interrogation.

Why didn’t I invest in an IRA sooner? Because at this rate, I won’t have the needed 4.5MM required for comfortable retirement. No, you’ll find me continuing my career at your neighborhood Walmart. I’ll be the 80 year old greeter stopping you at the door. Please make sure you show me your receipt without incident. Thank you.

Do I buy skinny jeans or slim straight? Every time I see Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp they are wearing a pair of skinny jeans, but the guy on WABC’s morning show said that I’m way too old for them. (Although, ten-to-one, he’s a fat slob who couldn’t wear them if he wanted. Oh wait. Am I fat-shaming now? Am I not woke? And why is it “woke” and not “awake?”)

Last week, my buddy told me that he is having so many erections a day he doesn’t even notice them anymore – on the train, at his desk, in McDonald’s drive-through, as he’s chomping on a communion wafer during Sunday’s convocation. Supposedly, they are popping up everywhere. I immediately thought two things. Is anyone else noticing all these erections? If not, then you may have a very small penis, my friend. If so, then I’ll need your pin number for the bail money. (I can’t afford bail, remember? I’m still waiting on my second Walmart interview.) And should I be having all these apparently unawkward boners? So I asked, “The yellow pill or the blue pill?” And he said, “Testosterone therapy.”

What the hell is testosterone therapy and do I need it?

What I’ve come to realize is that many guys are lost between retrospection and consternation, and even if not, every guy has a story – about life, love, sex, children, age, money, things lost and things gained. So this blog is a tribute to them and their voices. 40 guys over 40 blogging about sometimes acting our age and sometimes not acting it. And hopefully answering some of our own profound questions one-by-one.

By the way, I’m not getting testosterone therapy. One question down. Thirty nine to go.