Nobody cares...

Last week - on the 16th of September - I turned 25. Nobody cares. Not even I care. In fact, I care so little that I even forgot to mention it until right now. It only sprang to mind when I was asked for ID when purchasing a fresh carton of smokes from my local corner shop on the basis that I looked younger than 25.

I charmingly responded, with my usual glib, that it was a good job I looked under 25, because I was.

I handed over my Driving licence only to be told in sickeningly smug fashion by the pimply short-arse standing across the counter from me - staring at me from behind his grease-sodden, poorly straightened, electric blue fringe - that I was, in fact, 25 years old.

25 years and one day, he added.

I took my ID, paid for my smokes in something of a trance and drifted out onto the forecourt, where, after moment's emptiness, I fell to my knees and roared at the heavens...

Every year is the same: fist-shaking and surly-eyed glares for a week before and after; a frustrating level of nonchalence for everyone and everything that reminds me of the mile that is about to turn over on the clock; an introspective self-loathing that I relish and despise in close-to-equal measure.

Why do I hate it so much?

I hate aging; I believe life has most to offer in youth, not least possibility; I hate measuring my life against those of my peers. In honesty, I know that objectively I have done quite well for a 25 year old. I've been all over the Northern Hemisphere (though not Russia, which is a rather large part of it and an inexcusable admission from my globe-trotts that I plan to rectify soon). I've a fine career. I've earned a cap for my country. I have passable health for a man whose immune system bears a grudge for his body. But I feel so acutely the sense of underachievement.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

With the exception of swimming - an activity at which I am flappingly average at best - I am good at most things - a Jack of all trades as people say. I think it's the best way to be.

My mind always turns to the Olympian who strolls onto the world stage and claims gold at his first attempt. What more is there to accomplish? Sure, set new goals; raise the bar; challenge yourself against yourself. But there's nothing more to actually do. Colin Jackson remained at the top of his game for so long, because he was always trying to be better; always trying to snare the elusive Gold. He never did. And, in an odd kind of way, his career was probably better for it. Failure to secure the Gold aside, Jackson's achievements are unrivalled. Aspiration drove him on because, despite being the very best, he wasn't satisfied.

I have to chase the Gold. I'll probably end up falling short as most people do. And in some way, I hope that particular fate befalls me. Because I'll never give up. Just don't expect me to be happy about it.


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