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You know you're officially in your 40s when your idea of a wild night is staying up past 10 PM. I turned 43 recently, and let me tell you, I've hit that age where my idea of a good time is finding a quiet spot to sit down. You know you're getting old when your back goes out more than you do. I tried to do a jumping jack the other day, and I swear I heard my knees laughing at me. And don't get me started on technology. I remember when the height of technological advancement was a Tamagotchi. Now, I look at my phone, and it's like holding a miniature supercomputer. My 43-year-old brain is still trying to figure out how to use the microwave without setting off a nuclear reaction.
But here's the real kicker – 43 is that age where you start getting random aches and pains for no apparent reason. I wake up in the morning, and my body sounds like a bowl of Rice Krispies – snap, crackle, pop. I feel like I should come with my own theme music, something like, "Here comes the middle-aged man, creaking his way through life.
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At 43, fashion becomes a whole different ball game. I used to be the guy who cared about looking cool. Now, my main fashion goal is to find pants with an elastic waistband. If I can put on my jeans without doing the "pants dance," it's a win for the day. And what's the deal with clothing sizes? I swear they're just making them up at this point. I grabbed a shirt the other day that said it was my size, but I felt like I was trying to put on a sausage casing. I had to do some sort of Houdini maneuver just to get out of it.
But hey, there's a certain freedom in your 40s. I've reached the point where I don't care if my socks match. If they're both black, close enough. Life's too short to worry about coordinating your socks. And besides, who's going to see them anyway? I'm not attending any sock fashion shows.
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At 43, I've become a detective in my own home. Every time I misplace something, it's a full-blown investigation. I walk into a room, forget why I'm there, and suddenly I'm on a mission to solve the mystery of the missing keys. My memory has become so selective. I can remember the lyrics to a song from the '90s, but ask me where I put my glasses, and it's like searching for the Holy Grail. I've considered attaching a GPS tracker to my TV remote because that thing disappears more often than my motivation to exercise.
But you know you're truly 43 when you get excited about finding a good parking spot. I'm like, "Look at this spot! It's close to the entrance, and I didn't even have to parallel park. This is the highlight of my day.
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Being 43 and navigating social media is like trying to understand a foreign language. I'm on Instagram, and I feel like I need a manual just to figure out what all these filters do. When did everyone become a professional photographer? I take a selfie, and I look like I accidentally opened the front camera while trying to order pizza. And let's talk about emojis. I use them, but half the time, I have no idea what I'm sending. I think I'm sending a smiley face, and it turns out to be a grimacing emoji. My friends must think I'm in a perpetual state of pain or discomfort.
But despite all the confusion, I embrace my 43-year-old self on social media. I'm that person who comments "LOL" on everything because it's the only acronym I'm sure of. Laughing out loud or not, at least I'm participating in the social media circus.
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