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Jonathan Dalton
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A Would-Be Pirate Looks at 40

A Would-Be Pirate Looks at 40

avatarthumbnail.jpgTo be honest, it’s more than a little of a stretch to classify myself as a pirate given the propensity for seasickness that first reared its ugly head 23 years ago on a post-high school graduation trip to Catalina Island. But I’ll stretch if only because of an ongoing fascination with Captain Aubrey and Doctor Maturin and Mr. Buffett and maybe even Jack Sparrow.

Peace, to me, means a drink with an umbrella on a beach as I inhale salt-water laden air. Which makes my place here in the desert a little confusing. Maybe it’s best explained with the simple reasoning that there simply isn’t any other place across the other 49 states that I really would want to live.

Maybe that in itself is the definition of peace.

I find myself wondering more about such concepts as round numbers roll past on the personal odometer. All the angst that came with 30 once upon a time, tempered by the birth of my daughter a few months earlier, seems a long time ago and strikes me as much time wasted. Not that it was unique … for whatever reason, it’s been some time since I relished a birthday.

In that respect 40 is both no different and completely different. There still is some of the angst but the reasons have changed and have less to do with myself and more to do with how my children will view their own childhoods. Nothing is easy, especially these days, but my sincere hope is they’ll look back and think it was easier than it often was. It’s all a father can hope for, I think.

There will be no blowout party to mark this occasion, and maybe not even a return trip to Margaritaville … the food’s less than stellar and the rum’s cheaper in my own kitchen. And, to be honest, rum and tequila aren’t the friends to me they were (though rum and I remain on speaking terms, I’ll happily point out.)

Two months ago Jimmy introduced his signature song by mentioning those of us who were facing this passing year. And the lyrics tend to strike home a little bit more these days as I’m piecing together offers on multiple properties all at the same time … the cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothing to plunder. I’m an over 4o victim of fate, arriving too late.

Blackbeard didn’t push paperwork.

But I do. And you know what? It’s more or less okay. Because I wake when I choose and I go to bed when I choose and my hours to some degree are my own, allowing more than a little time to sit and smell the beagles. (They trampled the flowers.)

Truth is, I don’t feel like I’ve drowned. So maybe the melancholy is still off on some distant horizon after all.

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[tags]Phoenix real estate[/tags]


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