Pen and Ink: Sir, my ass.

After an enjoyable brunch with some friends last Sunday, Cary and I went to Starbucks (one of the roomy editions) and settled into comfy chairs for a long talk.

The conversation meandered from a vacation in the planning stage to relationships. It was during the latter topic that I used a phrase something like this: "as gay men going through middle age, we..."

He recoiled and looked at me aghast.

"Oh, don't even!" I admonished. "You're right there with me honey."

"It's not that," he replied. "Just don't say that word out loud."

Too late. It's out there.

I don't fear being [gulp] middle age. I'm 45. It doesn't get more middle age than that.

(I fear an aimless wandering in this post fast approaching. Let's see where this goes.)

The "rest of my life" has been on my mind a lot lately.

Cary and I talk about being together, as friends, for the rest of our lives. For 17 years, I assumed I would be with Mike. But despite our living arrangement, we no longer "together." Who knows what the future holds there? Considering a future with one's best friend, though, without the intricacies of a romantic relationship, is comforting and reassuring.

Then there is my career. I don't write very much about work in this blog, but it's a big part of my life. This job that I have had since January, and will likely have for the next five to 10 years, is like a PhD thesis. I'm taking everything I've learned since graduating from college nearly 24 years ago and employing it in one of the biggest professional challenges a non-profit manager could conjure up.

(Side note on the career: I'm a builder, a fixer. I don't walk into organizations that are running smoothly. My expertise is in fixing or starting development programs. This job is the biggest start-up/fixer-upper ever.)

So what's next professionally? What does Bill Gates do after he starts Microsoft? These things don't often happen twice in one's career. So the future is either consulting, which can be very lucrative, or going off and doing something totally different and fun, like raising money for a theater company. (I can dream.)

That segues me into the next "middle age" thing that I've been doing: financial planning. While in Boston last month, I went to see my financial advisor (or, as Cary puts it, "our" financial advisor). Scott manages my retirement accounts (very nicely I must say), and since we hadn't seen each other in a few years, I wanted to touch base about that and to roll-over another account from a previous job.

But the visit had a larger agenda.

"When can I retire? Or at least not have to keep worrying about retirement contributions and how much money I'm bringing in."

Big question. Very middle age.

This current job could very well be the big highlight of my career. Certainly, after this, I, and several of my colleagues, can write our own tickets. As I said previously, consulting is likely to be the next step. But it's a financial challenge. And, most importantly, I'd be going off the state retirement system (I work for a state-affiliated institution of higher education). That's a big deal.

It's all very adult. And a bit mind-boggling. The particular question I posed was "What will my financial situation look like when I'm 55?"

Fifty-five!!!???

Middle age, indeed.

(Where, exactly, is this post going? Wrap it up Glenn. Your readers have things to do.)

Sometimes I freak out a little. But then I'm reminded that 55 is the new 45. What generations before us looked like at 55 is not what we will look like at 55.

At a cocktail party last week, I was talking with one of my colleagues. I'm guessing she and I are fairly close in age. Maybe she's 50. At some point in the conversation I mentioned that I was 45.

"You are not!"

"Yes, M, I am. How old did you think I was?"

"Maybe 38."

Oh, I love her. Plus she's a Jersey girl, just like me.

And then there are people/situations like Stalker Boy who keep me feeling young and sexy. Imagine, a cute guy, 20 years my junior, finding me attractive and desiring me for...whatever. It's flattering and ego-boosting. And he doesn't even call me "papi."

Then I walk into my office and our student assistant, who's maybe 20, calls me "sir."

Sir, my ass.