1. I pretend I know how to fix things around the house
In your 40s, you’re expected to have this mystical ability to fix things. Dripping tap? No problem. Wobbly table? I’ll just wedge something under it and call it ‘stabilising’.
Truth is, I have a toolbox that exists purely to intimidate daddy long leg spiders who I’m fairly sure have opened a gym under the stairs.
Culturally, Irish dads are supposed to be part-man, part-shed. But I missed that apprenticeship. We all had fathers who could take apart a lawnmower blindfolded using only two spoons and some spit.
I once tried to change a light fitting and we ended up in darkness for a few hours. I also once put up a shelf in the bathroom — of which I was massively proud — but my wife keep telling me anyone within earshot: “He actually said it will be fine — just don’t put anything on it!”
A recent study (done by someone handier than me) says that self-perceived competence in DIY peaks at age 38 and then plummets sharply — probably around the time you realise there’s a very fine line between ‘tightening’ and ‘stripping the screw entirely’.
Spotify recently informed me I had streamed Sigur Ros 483 times in one month. That wasn’t even a sad month. That was just… a Tuesday.
There comes a point in your 40s where all new music sounds like someone trying to sell you protein bars while shouting over a tumble dryer.
You nod along when someone mentions Doja Cat, but deep down you’re thinking ‘Wasn’t she in ’
In my 20s, I prided myself on my music taste. I had opinions about B-sides. Now I just want something I can hum while I unload the dishwasher.
Historically, every generation reaches a musical cutoff. For me, it’s somewhere between Arctic Monkeys and whatever the hell hyperpop is.
Psychologists refer to this as ‘reminiscence bump’ — we emotionally bond most with the music from our teens and early 20s.
Which is why I nearly wept the last time Teenage Dirtbag came on in a petrol station.
There’s a specific moment in a man’s life — usually just after he’s bent down to tie his shoe or retrieve a rogue Lego — when his entire body goes ‘No’.
I threw my back out recently reaching for a grape. Not a box of grapes. One. Single. Grape. I made a noise like a fax machine being punched (I’m complete aware that anyone under the age of 35 won’t know what a ‘fax’ is)
But when asked “Are you okay?” the only acceptable answer (as a man in his 40s) is: “Ah yeah, just a bit stiff. Grand though.”
We lie through gritted teeth while walking like John Wayne in wet corduroy. Historically, men haven’t been great at acknowledging pain. Our ancestors fought wolves and famine. I got winded bringing the shopping in.
Medically, back pain becomes increasingly common after 40 due to something called ‘disc degeneration’ — which sounds like a bad DJ name but is actually just ageing bones throwing in the towel.
To overcome the pain I just say to myself. “I’m not old. I’m just… compression sensitive.”
Modern parenting is like being dropped into a video game you didn’t know you downloaded.
There are words, abbreviations, trends — and somehow, I’m always the villain. I try to stay up to speed. I read the odd TikTok trend breakdown. I ask careful questions like “Is Riz good or bad?”
But mostly I just smile, nod, and hope someone doesn’t point and roar “He hasn’t a clue!”
Historically, parents have always been uncool. It’s practically our job. But in this age of memes and livestreams, the speed at which you become irrelevant is faster than a teenager slamming a door.
According to one study, kids think their parents are officially ‘cringe’ from age 12 onward. Which is deeply unfair, because that’s exactly when I got good at wordplay.
On the outside, I look composed. Inside, I’m three receipts away from yelling “WHY DID I SPEND €6 ON KOMBUCHA?” Knowing full well that it isn’t going to solve my ‘bloating’.
(It’s possible my large stomach is caused by repeated ingestion of salted caramel ice-cream. However without more scientific study this cannot be 100% proven.)
In your 40s, people assume you have a grip on money. You nod at mortgage rates, you say things like ‘we’ll revisit that in Q3’, and you pretend your pension is something other than a shoebox with old Bus Éireann vouchers.
Financial adulthood is just constant juggling. Kids, bills, petrol, insurance. Your life essentially becomes a series of direct debits. You’re always ‘just after paying something off’.
As a self-employed person for most of my life I’m still trying to get my head around invoicing.
Culturally, Irish people were never raised to talk about money. We were raised to say things like ‘Ah, sure we’ll make do’ while sweating through a budget spreadsheet written on the pack of a till receipt.
According to behavioural economists, money shame is real — especially in midlife when you’re expected to have it all sorted.
But guess what? No one really does. Even your man with the campervan and the laser-cut grass. He’s stressed too.
