Thursday, November 12, 2009

Almost 30: Looking Back, Looking Forward

I'm officially two and a half hours or so from turning the big 3 - 0. And like quite a portion of the elderly population, I'm a bit deluded; a bit confused.

I mean, just how am I supposed to act at thirty? Should I stop by a medical supply and buy a walker? A Hoveround?

Retire and settle into a pair Depends undergarments. Cover these with slim fitting grey Russell Athletic sweatpants. Watch reruns of "Golden Girls" on TVLand. Shuffle around the house in tube socks and furry slippers only when absolutely necessary. And finally don an ill-fitting bathrobe to hide the whole mess.

Then, I'll pop a couple dozen prescription medications until I eventually succumb, dying in a putrid slop of human waste.

The horror. The horror.

I really don't want to say goodbye to my twenties. My twenties were, for the most part, pretty fucking cool. It seemed like the skinny, goofy bastard I'd been in my teens finally came into his own when turning-point twenty came around.

The writer in his twenties. He looked good. He partied a lot. Experimented with all sorts of substances and sexual positions. Made a douche of himself quite often. Redeemed himself when he could. And came through it all relatively physically and mentally intact. A veritable expose of well-spent youth.

Now, as I reach the winter of my twenties, life has changed completely. It's not just about me anymore. I've got a daughter now. So, the partying has come to a near complete close. And when I do drink, I find my tolerance is WAY, WAY lower than it was just a year ago.

I don't hit the gym. Ever. Don't really have time for it.

I try not to act like a douche, but it still happens on occasion. Usually around my family, which is regrettable, to say the least. They may forgive my little lapses, but like elephants, they never forget.

Basically, I now find myself much more cognizant of me. Sure, that statement sounds weird. But it's true. Where I'd do whatever I wanted in my twenties because it brought me pleasure, and I'd rarely suffer any consequences for my actions, now I find myself analyzing every thing I do before I do it. Analyzing things TO DEATH.

And I'm still getting used to it.

I guess my point is that my thirties already started somewhere in my late twenties. So, thirty is not that big a deal after all.

Now forty... that's something else entirely.