The theme for September’s issue had me feeling “some type of way” as the kids say these days. For starters, I was ineligible for the 40 under 40 – no, not because I work for the magazine (though that’s probably another disqualifier), but because I am past my fourth decade of life. In fact, my birthday was last month, and I turned 45. I am now closer to 50 than I am to 40! (I realize those numbers are technically equidistant to my age, but from an emotional standpoint, somehow 50 feels a heck of a lot closer.)

I can’t help but sit back and think, “How did I get this old?” I don’t feel this old – except maybe when I stand up too fast. When I was a kid, 45 wasn’t a conceivable age I would ever be; 45 was somebody’s dad! Somebody who wore white New Balance sneakers and complained about the property taxes.

So since I couldn’t qualify for the 40 Under 40, I devised a list of 40 “under-40” things I can apparently no longer do.

Get off the floor without making a noise. (Apparently standing now requires a soundtrack.)
Sleep in a position of my choosing. (One wrong pillow arrangement and I wake up with an injury requiring three business days to resolve itself.)
Eat Taco Bell after midnight. (There are consequences.)
Go somewhere loud and call it entertainment.
Leave the house after I’ve already changed into comfortable clothes.
Recover immediately from physical activity. (I can injure myself sleeping now.)
Read tiny print without moving it back and forth like I’m cracking a safe.
Understand teenage slang without consulting outside sources. (This one is really popular with my students, since they usually are those sources.)
Recognize everyone nominated for a major music award.
Hear a song from high school without realizing it is now considered a “classic.” (This one hurts.)
Accept that doctors can be younger than me. (Absolutely not. Where are the adult physicians?)
Pass up a trip to IKEA, as if someone invited me to Disneyland. (But seriously, have you tried those meatballs?)
Tolerate unnecessarily loud restaurants. (Why is the ceiling exposed? Why is everyone shouting? Why are we eating in a warehouse?)
See a crowd and think, “That looks fun!” (No. That looks like a line.)
Ride anything that spins. (At some point the Tilt-A-Whirl went from amusement ride to medical emergency.)
Run simply because running sounds enjoyable. (If I’m running, something is chasing me.)
Sit cross-legged for an extended period and then immediately stand up.
Wear uncomfortable shoes because they look good. (Beauty has limits.)
Pull off “messy hair.” (At this age it no longer says “carefree;” it says “wellness check.”)
Go outside without sunglasses. (When did daylight become so aggressive?)
Remember why I walked into a room.
Remember where I put the thing that I specifically put somewhere so I wouldn’t forget it.
Read a restaurant menu in romantic lighting. (Candlelight is lovely until you’re trying to determine whether the entrée says “salmon” or “salami.”)
Answer a phone call from an unknown number. (We used to sprint across the house to answer a ringing telephone without having the slightest idea who was calling. Psychopaths!)
Leave a voicemail. (Now if someone leaves me one, I assume there has been a death.)
Memorize phone numbers. (There are people I love dearly whose numbers I could not provide under Al-Qaeda-level interrogation.)
Navigate somewhere without GPS. (I once knew how to get places using landmarks and instinct. Apparently that portion of my brain has been outsourced.)
Wait patiently through commercials.
Accept that a “starter home” costs more than the mansion from Father of the Bride.
Watch a movie from my childhood without noticing that all the parents are younger than I am now.
Hear “twenty years ago” and think of the 1980s. (Twenty years ago was 2006, which is obviously a clerical error.)
Get excited about my birthday solely because I’m getting older. (Somewhere around 21, the incentive program collapsed.)
Tell people my age in fractions. (Children get to be “six and a half.” I think adults should reclaim this. “I’m 44 and three-quarters.”)
Think of retirement as something that happens only to old people. (Oh, how I long for that day!)
Look at Archie Bunker and realize Carroll O’Connor was 46 when All in the Family premiered. (Forty-six! He looked like he’d already fought in three wars.)
Watch Home Alone without wondering what the McCallisters’ mortgage payment was.
Be embarrassed about liking something considered uncool. (There’s tremendous freedom in reaching the “I like what I like” stage.)
Feel guilty about saying no when I simply don’t want to go.
Wish I were twenty again without adding several extremely important conditions. (My current income, current confidence, current judgment, and absolutely none of my original decision-making skills.)
Believe that 40 is old. (Because when I was twenty, it absolutely was. Now? Forty is practically adolescence with lower-back pain.)

So what’s the point? I think it’s this: getting older creates this bizarre trade-off. Just when I’m getting comfortable in my own body, it starts becoming uncooperative. I may not be able to do the same things I did at 20, but I also don’t particularly want to.

I guess that’s why I love teaching teenagers so much – they keep me feeling young. Yes, they may often call me “old man” and make jokes about my childhood friend, Methuselah, but ultimately, their energy invigorates me. Yes, they remind me of when I was their age (though I would never want to be that age again), but they also make it impossible to forget that there’s still a lot of life ahead of me as well.

So no, I don’t think 45 is old. But don’t expect me to leave the house after I’ve changed into my comfy clothes, unless it's an emergency.

Brandon Shoemaker is the director of theatre at Texas High School, where he spends his days bringing stories to life onstage and his nights overthinking them on paper. He is also the co-host of From Art to Atoms: The Ultimate Curiosity Show, a podcast that explores everything from pop culture to science, with equal parts insight and curiosity. When he’s not directing productions or chasing deadlines, he’s likely tending to a creative project from woodworking to bonsai styling, or falling down a pop culture rabbit hole. With a deep love for humor, nostalgia, and the beautifully absurd parts of everyday life, he blends wit with heart to find meaning in the mundane.

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Notes from the Shoe Box: September 2026