Irritable Male Syndrome

Monday, May 09, 2005

02: 13: 28: 35

As I start typing this, that's the exact amount of time left before I turn the big Three-oh. 30 years old. Am I worried about it? Not at all, but everybody else seems to think it's quite a big deal, and I'm not really sure why. There are no added benefits to turning 3 decades old. I get nothing from it. There's no plus of being able to legally drink, my car insurance rates don't drop again, and it's not an age when I finally become a man and get my period. I wish. So what's all the hub-bub about?

Judging by my friends, though--most of whom are younger than I am--Thursday morning is a turning point in my life. To them, I am old. I'm now supposed to drink coffee without gobs of sugar in it, my life will find it's direction, and I'll finally feel a deep emotional pang to have a handful of cute offspring. But, it'll be tough conceiving because every time I have an orgasm from Thursday through the rest of my life, it'll look like a mini-recreation of a Mt St. Helens false alarm; nothing but jizz-dust and worried female faces. Looks like I'll be frantically trying to line-up some Squish for Wednesday night. Either that, or drinking a beer, playing some poker and not worrying about it. The latter is much less work, so it's safe to assume that I'll succumb to that option.

Yes, I'm lazy.

When I was in college, I always thought I'd settle down by the time I turned 25. You know--brilliant, gorgeous wife that had a great job, allowing me to work from home, a nice house in a new development with a weed-free lawn that I'd pay the neighbor kid to mow, and all that junk that typifies what is normally considered as "grown-up". And if I hadn't had kids by the time I passed the quarter century mark, at the very least I wanted to raise a few rottweiler puppies, watching them grow into upstanding members of the equine community, which is much tougher than it sounds.

5 years after having passed that imaginary save point, I consider myself very lucky to have gotten by it without falling into all the seemingly great things listed above. Most of all, I'm happiest to have dodged the ovulation bullet. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but respect for those that raise children. It's not tough to have a kid, though. Anyone yokiel can have a kid. Look at how many people conceive that aren't even trying! It's not hard to create life. Which makes it all the more surprising that I am not paying someone from my past for child support. And No, there isn't an illegitimate Chad Jr or three out there that I just haven't met yet. I realize the last sentence doesn't make sense, because if they haven't come forward, then how can I say they don't exist, right? Shut up, I just know.

No, it's not hard to make a baby, but it is, however, hard to raise a baby. I look at friends and relatives that have kids and a house decorated like Ikea puked inside of it, and I realize that I am lucky. I'm lucky that I haven't "grown-up". That I've escaped the clutches of Succubi gone by.

And that fills my "Succubi" usage and rhyming quota for the next eon.

Cleaning "spit-up" and wiping asses is not my bag, baby. A little off topic, but why do adults "puke", "vomit", or sometimes even "hork", and babies are allowed to hoard the phrase "spit-up"? That's not right. When I get drunk enough to fill the toilet full of half-eaten burrito mixed with bile, I want to be able to say "Ah, yeah, I spit-up last night". Much less abrasive, don't you think? No, instead I have to say "I yacked.", which is not quite as cute, not to mention socially acceptable. Whatever that means. Most babies don't even get reprimanded when stomach contents are emptied on a relative's face. How is that fair? It's not. All I ever get is a look of contempt, possibly mixed in with a dash of digust served on a heapin' helpin' of guilt.

Where am I? I wrote the first line, after which I everything went black, and now that I'm coherent again, I see 6 paragraphs of shit that go absolutely nowhere. Oh well, might as well leave it.

30 leaves me highly unimpressed. It's not any different than 29, which wasn't any different than 28, or even 26 for that matter. It's just a number. I'm still going to be the same politically incorrect person with a bad sense of humor, and just because I've hit an age that's disvible by 5 doesn't mean that I'm going to miraculously "grow up". That's for suckers.

To all the suckers reading this:Ha-ha, you're a sucker.

I guess that's the thing--30 is just a number. It doesn't define who I am, nor will it define the person that society normally dictates who I "should" be. I ran around Calhoun last night, which always provides the opportunity to bear witness to a large spectrum of Uptown society. Though I hate running, it's something I force myself to do, if only for the unintentional humor value involved.

There's the uptight girly-girls that dress up in J.Lo sweat suits, top and bottom an eye-searing shade of pink. It's ironic that they choose that outfit, because they last thing they'll be doing in it is perspiring. And their biggest choice isn't how long they're going to "exercise", it's whether or not to wear 2" or 4" inch pumps, because we all know that's important. Nothing says healthy like blistered feet.

You also see the middle-aged, tan-skinned health freaks. Their love for all things spandex not only allows me a fleeting lesson in anatomy, but it also disturbs me to no end. I know, for a fact, that lycra is not supposed to be wedged that far up someone's ass. Ever. And the fact that they're just comfortably plodding along with genatialia right there, well, that's just wrong.


There's also people that are right around my age, and for those you in a time-warp, that's 30 human years old. Not dog years. The thing is, though, they're nothing like me. I don't feel old, I don't look old, and most of all, I don't act old. So, why anyone would consider me old is beyond me.

On Thursday, I turn 30, and to everybody else, that's synonomous with "old". To me, though, I'll be drinking cheap beer at the bar just like I always do, followed by reverse-eating into the toilet at the end of the night, and the next morning, if I'm a lucky girl, I'll finally get my period.

That's not old, that's just me.


At 12:03 PM, Blogger Drizztdj said...

Did you sign up for AARP yet?


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