Among the thousand famous indignities of middle age, this is not the least: at forty-seven you finally have the self-discipline and/or executive function to do five or ten percent of the things you intended to do at twenty. You can anticipate most of your pet stalling mechanisms and answer many of your impeccably reasonable excuses. Along with this, perhaps more important than this, you also have begun to distinguish the sorts of projects that are – attack them with whatever enthusiasm – simply unsustainable by you from those that you might actually be able to do. 

A middle-aged deadlifter single-handedly solves the masculinity crisis.