And then there was one…
My three best friends from high school are all thirty now. The last one’s odometer just clicked over to the big three-oh on the 25th, and that has me feeling a bit… I don’t know exactly. Depressed? Scared? Sore? Anxious?
Anxious, I think.
I like my twenties. They have been good to me. They gave me a wife, a baby, a house, a black belt, and a car that wasn’t a giant green van powered by suck. I think I like my twenties so much that I haven’t given up on thinking that I am a young twenty-something guy still. I’ll be watching UFC and up comes a set of stats that shows that Johnny So-and-so is twenty-three, and I’ll say to myself, “Hey, that guy’s my kind of age.”
And then another voice pops up, and this one sounds like Alan Rickman at his most venomous (Severus Snape and the Sherriff of Nottingham mashed together). It says to me, “You’re 29, you idiot. You haven’t been in your early twenties for years. You are old and pathetic and your peak – such that it was – is long behind you. You are nearly thirty. Your time is coming up quickly. Accept being old and irrelevant because that is your lot in life from this point forward.”
I am not aging gracefully, I guess.
I don’t know how I will do when my birthday rolls along in another couple months. I worry at what kinds of compulsions will come over me, like when I bought a completely age-inappropriate Quicksilver hoodie last week. Maybe I’ll spend more time playing videogames, or… dammit, I can’t even think what young people do with their time anymore.
Looks like I’ve become irrelevant and oblivious.