Forty-five

 Look, I'm fine with growing older. It's just a number. I'm never going to act my age, anyway. Or even my shoe size - my feet are bigger than most people's. But I AM going to turn 45 on Thursday, and it's a sort of semi big round number. And here's what some of my friends happen to be posting about on the internet - literally today, this isn't made up - well, it's just paraphrased a tiny bit, but it's real:

Very nice artist friend (who is, by the way, less than five years younger than me, looks incredibly youthful and has no physical or health problems) - "When I finish this latest epic comic in a few years' time I'll be 45, and I can't really keep drawing forever - what if I get arthritis, or my eyesight goes, or I get shakier as I get old and have to give up drawing? I need to find a new career."

Very nice other friend (who is lovely and I feel guilty about calling out like this, but it's the mood I'm in) - "Someone I work closely with has just suddenly died at the age of 45. This is incredibly sad."

I mean, it's just the timing of the whole thing. It makes me get a little bit sensitive...