Six years ago, when I turned forty-seven, I wrote up something called "Taking inventory", and it was utterly depressing. Then again, at the time, I was utterly depressed, perhaps the worst I'd been since 1988, when putting myself out of my misery presented itself as an available option, and I wound up doing a couple of months in the Home for the Bewildered, which I tend to dismiss in casual conversation as "a stint in detox" despite the fact that there was no actual tox involved.
It occurs to me that it might be worthwhile, in a self-flagellating sort of way, to examine the conditions that contributed to that particular malaise, and to see what vestiges of them remain today.
Hmmm. Nothing here that would indicate any reason to be less despondent.
One factor is definitely different: almost exactly midway between these two dates, I bought a house. This had a slightly negative impact on my cash flow, which wasn't really offset by the usual tax advantage