In two weeks, I'll be thirty. I will have reached a mature round number, an age at which most people would like to have either babies or an otherwise impressive list of merit or both. I will look into a mirror, see a few subtle signs of aging, and realise that, strictly speaking, the highest peak of my physical prowess is already gone.
This does not depress me, though, since I still anticipate a long time on the high plateau (and then there is the mind, a completely different question). Yet I can't help thinking: what a curious thing to happen to a little boy.