My 32nd Lesson Learned

Before I say anything else, I'll acknowledge that, in the grand scheme of things, I'm not really that old. Certainly, when I was a teenager, I had a hard time picturing myself as a 32-year old man. But now that I'm there, I have a hard time believing I was such a retarded teenager. Anyways...
Another birthday has come and gone. And on the occasion that it's late into the night (actually early into the morning), I have time to pause and think of what it means to be another year older. And the conclusion: not a damn thing. Not that I'm ungrateful to have reached another milestone in life, quite the opposite in fact. But I realize that just because I've reached it doesn't mean anything special; I've gained no new wisdom, talents, or superhero powers merely for the fact of being here.
So what have I learned (if anything)?
That age is just a number. And by that, I mean I never feel as old as I supposedly am. Not unless there's an actual reminder, like a new pain in the body I've never felt before, one which I attribute to age. But as soon as it's gone, I feel as young as ever, which is an indeterminate, yet constant, age which will forever exist so long as I do. Or maybe the reminder is in the form of a comment by another person, something about the grey in my hair or the lines under my eyes. Yet again, it's not long after they're gone and the conversation over that my mind moves on and forgets that I am indeed growing older.
(I wonder if this is the case: that ten, fifteen, twenty-plus years from now I'll still feel that I'm not really old; just older.)
There's been other lessons learned and relearned. But they're better off being talked about at another time, if ever at all.