Earlier this summer, I gave the Best Man’s speech at a spectacular, fairytale wedding on the Amalfi Coast. I thoroughly enjoyed the unique challenge of putting pen to paper, somehow blending soppiness and sexual innuendo. I was blown away by the panoramic view from a Ravello rooftop. But around my eighth Aperol Spritz, I engaged in the existential crisis that is common practice for plenty of “midults” like me. As the poolside dance-floor filled, I was saddled with a sense of feeling stuck. I