Where's My Freaking Party?

And now for something completely different. A post that isn't me whining about lack of progress on our films. Nay, verily, I shall endeavor to whine about something utterly new.

I'm not a young man.

I guess I'm what one might call a middle-aged dude. I don't feel it. I have a youthful spirit. I play videogames. I listen to techno. But... well... I'm 39. So that makes me middle aged.

And I'm staring down the barrel of a gun at 40.

I'd like to say that this impending "milestone" birthday is meaningless to me but, truth is, its not. It scares me.

Not too long ago I took a "longevity expectancy" quiz that Dr. Sanjay Gupta had on his MSNBC site. It pegged me to make it to an even 80. Not great, but not bad. And I'm 1/2way there. At the hump. As much behind me as ahead of me. That sucks.

My old man had a heart attack at 40. Genetics hang over me like a dark cloud.

So a couple of months ago I climbed onto the scale one morning. It read 220. Nearly 40 years old, 220 lbs, and a genetic predisposition to die of a heart attack any day now.

"This ain't gonna fly," I thought to myself.

And so I've busted my ass for the last couple of months. My original goal was to get down to 200lbs. 20 lbs seemed pretty manageable, and was bound to help my odds of survival. And I hit it pretty quickly. So I doubled the odds.

40 lbs by my 40th birthday in August.

I've cut back dramatically on my eating habits (1 "real" meal a day and limit that to fish/poultry and steamed or grilled vegetables). I work out 4 times a week. I'm probably in the best shape of my post-military life.

So yesterday, May 1st, I climbed on the scale at the gym.

179.

41 pounds. I'd beaten my goal!

I don't know what I thought would happen when I hit it, but I felt like something should! A party. A letter of congratulations from the Pope. Sex with Natalie Portman.

SOMETHING.

But what happened is I rushed back to work from a lunchtime workout. My best "work buddy" was slammed and in the crappiest mood imaginable. I didn't even bother sharing.

Called the wife, who was on her way to class. A quick "good work, honey" and she was off to learn about Post-Impressionists or some freaking thing.

IMed Dave, who bitterly replied that maybe I should spend less time on the treadmill and more time on Final Draft.

Truth is... no one gave a shit.

Instead I picked up my son. We went to Target and bought Transformers. Transformers rule. And then we played with them in the bar at Outback Steakhouse while I downed an 18 oz ribeye.

Afterwards we went home and downloaded some clips Producer Dude sent us from his current movie... the one being directed by the Director he wants to use on Siege. Hard to tell much from a few clips, but it looked competent and well shot, so that was encouraging. And my son thought the explosion was cool.

So... maybe I'm an idiot for expecting some kind of public celebration of my private success. Truth is, steak and dailies with my amazing kid is better than any congratulatory letter from Regis Philbin or hot-wings party at Hooters.

Life's really like that, if you think about it. A ton of private efforts that make up a public persona. You share what is appropriate with the world, but most of the time... the most private struggles are the ones that matter most to... well... just you.

- Charlie

P.S. If Natalie Portman's reading, I'd still be up for that, though...