Almost like 40
How it occurred, I am not acutely aware but at some point my nearest and dearest went from being solely in my age bracket to upwards of 30. Of course all of the former are people that I love and admire. I’m not kissing any ass when I say that their wisdom and reliability as good friends have made me a better person. One who tests the boundaries of trust a little more and knows that drinking eight glasses of water a day will lead to eternal hotness; or at least the ability to look 19 when about to hit 33. No matter, they’re lovely people.
My age has never been a point of discussion unless an intense discourse on Silver Spoons or Jake Ryan comes up and even then I just smile and nod and remark how hot Rick (sorry, Ricky) Shroeder was in NYPD Blue. Which leads to Mark Paul Gosseler discussion and well I’ve seen every episode of Saved by the Bell and we carry on. It’s something that one rarely notices, especially I that is until recently when the subject of birthdays came up. Specifically how excitement dwindles after a certain age.
A good friend happens to have a birthday well into his fourth decade next week. Kid looks about 24 and acts about 13 on a good day (I say that with love) so I tend to forget that he will be over a decade older than I. In fact he’s probably reading this now and contemplating ways in which to kick me in the head from afar. Ad nauseum requests of his excitement and birthday plans are all for naught because apparently the clichés are true: as one gets older birthdays tend to just become another day. Or so he said when I counted down to the minute how long until his birthday and he depressed the hell out of my by pointing out that after 25 birthdays are no longer exciting or something to look forward to. So remind me to toss myself in front of a bus somewhere around October 26, 2009, because life goes downhill from there.
Of course I beg to differ solely based on what I’ve heard from others in the over 25 set, but I thought that this would be something to throw out to the internet. Especially since right now I am this close to writing a long bitter diatribe of a novel because there’s so little time until I begin to give up on life and the date of my birth. And lord knows that y’all don’t want me writing novels. Unless novels can have the word fuck thrown in every other word and then I suppose it’s all good.