“What gets better with age?” you asked, all innocent and philosophical, like it wasn’t about to send me into a spiral of self-reflection and wine envy.

The obvious answer, of course, is wine. Red wine, to be precise. That elegant, tannin-laced nectar of the aging gods. People say it matures, it deepens, it softens at the edges with time.

Yeah. No.
I wouldn’t know.

I’m one of those people. The supposed unlucky few for whom red wine = sinus infection, puffy face, and a symphony of sneezes. I once tried to push through with a cabernet at a wedding and ended up looking like I had just sprinted through allergy season with my face first.

So no, I can’t speak with authority on whether wine truly gets better with age. What I can say, however, is that I have. I have gotten better. And, I have annual proof.

Just last week, I had my physical with my primary care physician, who’s been poking, prodding, and checking in on me for two full decades. The man looked me square in the face and said, “You look exactly the same as you did twenty years ago.”

Now, could he be lying? Maybe.
Do I care? Absolutely not.

Because here’s the thing: I don’t just look the same. I am better.
I’m wiser (ish). I take care of myself. I drink water now without making a face. Ok. I lie. But I do drink water now. Don’t frown. That’s an accomplishment for me. I’ve learned the magic of sleep, stretching, and not responding to texts immediately. Or not so immediately. I work out. Not to just fit into jeans, but to be able to carry my groceries and my sanity.

I’m sharper. I have better boundaries. I’ve stopped pretending to like things I don’t. (Looking at you, networking dinners and silly team-building exercises.)

Meanwhile, society? Yeah, not aging so gracefully. Feels like we’re all in a bit of a downward spiral. The planet’s on fire, the WiFi’s unstable, and don’t even get me started on the political discourse. It’s like everyone decided to yell into the void at once.

Sports? I think we’re in an endless loop of Sinner vs. Alcaraz, like two tennis bots were programmed to eternally battle for Wimbledon. Im squarely I the corner of one of them, but that gets boring.  And speaking of bots. Hello Skynet? AI? It’s creeping in fast. We’ve been conditioned to fear the rise of the machines, and yet we now have a business Chat GPT account.
So what gets better with age?

Me! And maybe cheese. And possibly perspective. Although that one fluctuates depending on the day, the humidity, and whether or not I’ve had caffeine.

But red wine? You can keep it. I’ll toast to my sinus-free, gracefully aging self with a bubbly titos drink and a wink at my doctor. Because at this point, I’ve earned it.