I’m 39 (No, it’s not my birthday) It’s the oldest age I’ve reached and the youngest I’ll ever be. And also it’s the first time I’ve come to terms with getting old…My hair had a fallout with me, I have wrinkly skin, a missing tooth, a persistent cough and a mild disgust for modern music with gibberish lyrics.

Or maybe I’m not getting old, just getting aged. Aging like whisky. Getting better as years go by. The resemblance is uncanny. We are both spirits trapped either inside oak barrels or a degrading meatsuit. The lifetime experience I’ve had is the flavor while the wrinkly skin and the lost tooth can easily be the battle wounds I’ve gathered throughout my personal battle with time.

I can almost hear you mumbling “What’s the point in him writing all about this?” I’m not trying to convey the message that getting old is hard to accept…what I’m trying to say is that no matter how old you are, you’re the age you feel…(That wasn’t really it, but this sounds about right, too).

Two weeks ago, I felt exactly like that within a bunch of people of varying ages in Valencia. I was in my teens again and they were too, proving that age is just numbers and youth is always inside you…us, waiting to be dug out.