I have with all due respect to Raspberry Beret spent a great deal of my life doing something close to nothing, but different than the day before. I cannot pretend to have elevated this endeavor to an art form but, at four and sixty years, I will concede (albeit ruefully) it has become a career.
Decades ago I used to answer the ‘what do you wanna be when you grow up?’ question with something considerably less insightful than the current flavor of the month, and would dissolve into mumbles and shrugs because that’s what my cohort did.
At some point in the Sixties, the older part of the generation decided to head off in various directions of the compass, leaving the rest of us to wander and wonder. I’m still waiting for my varsity letter to show up for that; I already have the sweater, so spare me the sales pitch.
As for when I would get good, much less reach my peak, at whatever it was I was to somehow choose to be and to do (here in the Land of the Round Doorknobs, the former is almost always the latter), I had and still have NO idea, but will entertain suggestions.
As it turns out, though, says the Washington Post, if you’re a creative artist, like a writer, a painter or a musician, as opposed to a cretinous crustacean such as myself, research suggests it’s possible to predict with some degree of accuracy when you’ll reach your peak, Zebulon.
Of course, as you read the article and compare its ‘best by’ numbers to the age on your driver’s license, bear in mind some settling of contents may have occurred in shipment and that all of us are evaluated ultimately on weight and not volume (that is less than reassuring upon further review). Sadly, as always, your mileage may vary, but more often it's your resolve.
All I can offer you is some sympathy, and you know where to look sympathy up in the dictionary right?, as I’ve accepted the joys such as they are in realizing when you don’t know where you’re going any road will lead you there. Roll the windows up, Skippy, we might be in for a dark ride.