It's Always the Year that Ends in a Seven

At 7, I got my first "new" bike. It was blue.
At 17, I passed my drivers test, but was still (and still 'em) afraid to drive.
At 27, I knew I didn't want to work for a little small town bank and applied to grad school.
At 37, it dawned on me that I was nearly middle age. I was clearly on the north side of 30, and 40 was just around the corner.
At 47, I realize I'm getting old. When I walk by a wall mirror in the train station or gym, or even store windows, I take a second glance. My reflection often surprises me (graying, thinning hair, stooped posture, slow stride). I also recently viewed my passport photos side-by-side from the past three decades. Striking difference. No need to wait to 50, old age is almost here.