A couple of weeks ago I turned 50 years old, which is a sentence my fingers feel strange typing because in my mind I’m still somewhere in my late 20s. Age perception is weird like that. There’s a polite assumption your loved ones (and your financial planner) like to make, which is that you will live to be 100 years old. Actuarial tables tell a more likely story, but I don’t care: I’m going to try to reach centenarian status.

Working back from there, I think of this 50th birthday as halftime—that pause mid-game when players get to run off the field, take a breather, review what’s happened so far, and strategize what’s next (ideally while Shakira and J. Lo do this show).