Not exactly what I had in mind in my twenties, but this is where things have landed.

The “old” part shows up quietly. Midnight used to be when things got started. Now, being awake past 10 p.m. usually means something’s gone wrong with the planning. I used to stay up all night, go to work the next day and think nothing of it. These days, if I stay up late finishing a series, I need a recovery window and possibly a written excuse.

The “fat” bit arrived slowly enough that I could ignore it for a while. Too many roadhouse meals, motel breakfasts, and “I’ll just grab something on the way” dinners have done their job. The waistline tells the story. The fridge seems to have more say than it used to, and exercise – especially walking for no good reason – has never been a natural hobby. Any treadmill that’s ever been in my house has done its best work as a clothes rack.

“Tired” is now the base setting. Once upon a time, a nap was a sign you were unwell or being punished. Now it’s a goal for the day. Fatigue turns up whenever it feels like it: halfway through the afternoon, in the middle of a sentence, somewhere between the second and third coffee. The mind still produces ideas. The body would prefer a chair and maybe a lie-down.

None of this is a crisis, and I’m not looking for sympathy. It’s just a practical stocktake of where things are at. Joints complain. Shirts seem to shrink in the wardrobe. The energy that used to be there on tap now has conditions attached.

The trade-off, I suppose, is that you do collect a few stories and your sense of humour sharpens up a bit. You either laugh at yourself or you spend a lot of time annoyed at things you can’t change. If your knees sound like an old windmill every time you stand up, you may as well get a smile out of it.

So yes: old, fat and tired. Slower than I was, not quite as sharp around the edges, but still here, still getting from A to B, still able to remember my own address. For the time being, that’ll do.