Today is my 44th birthday. What’s weird is that I never thought I’d be 44 years old. Not because I didn’t think I’d make it to be 44 or something like that. Forty-four just seems really old to me. I guess now I’m officially middle-aged.

About 10 years ago I went to Greece. I walked up to the Acropolis on warm morning in Athens, and by the time I got there, I was winded and sweaty, but it was a great walk. Because it was still early, I was one of the first people there … preceding even the tourist buses.

As I rested before going in, I watched those buses pull in and disgorge enormous tourists who were too weak and heavy to climb up the side of the Acropolis as I just had. To me, they looked to be in their mid-40s. Some were a little older, some a little younger. And while they milled around outside of the buses, waiting for their tour guides to lead them past the exterior gates, I vowed never to be like them.

So then, over the intervening decade, I became just like them. Obese, heaving, winded, sweaty and frankly, horribly out of shape.

Somehow you don’t see it coming. But when it hits, and you finally realize that you are now one of the very people you vowed never to become, it shines a pretty harsh light on the way you’ve lived your life.

The reason I’m fat, honestly, is because I eat too much and don’t get enough exercise. And I’ve been doing that now for all of my adult life. Sometimes I’m a little better than others, but within the last decade I’ve put on and lost and put on and lost about 70-80 pounds.

Now it’s time for me to finally grow up and recognize that my way isn’t going to cut it if I still want to be able to walk up to the Acropolis. I’d rather not look like a middle-aged tourist with thick ankles and a breathing problem.