I turn 29 in a couple of weeks. That’s almost THIRTY in case you missed it. I don’t feel like I thought I would at this age. I’m sure everyone thinks the same way, but I thought I would feel old or at least more adult–have adult furniture, a fridge full of actual food from the grocery store, a closet of clothes that matched and people might stop describing my style as “professional 5-year old.” Instead, I still don’t know how to cook (the last time I turned on my oven was to make sure the pizza in the cardboard box did not get cold before friends came over for “dinner”), my furniture is a hodge-podge of charitable donations from family and friends, and I honestly have no control over the desire to wear my cowboy boots with purple tights, a blue-gray striped dress and accessorize the whole outfit with a pink wig.
When someone recently asked me if I had any domestic abilities, I wanted to respond: Domestic abilities? Hmm, not sure, but does my prowess in the sack count as an international one?
I’ve spent the past few days rereading journal entries from all my birthdays since the time I was five or six and, wow, was I one unhappy little EMO mofo. I’ve documented the progression of my grey hairs since the age of 17 and let me tell you, year 28 took a fast dive off the semi-permanent hair color aisle. However, nothing will ever come close to year 26 when I realized I had a grey crotch hair and called my mother sobbing. She taught me an important life lesson that day: “When you’re a heathen, life poops on you.”
And that’s why god invented tweezers.
The reality of getting old truly hit me last Friday when mom and I went out for drinks and everyone her age was hitting on me instead of her. I kept thinking: this will be my fate too one day, to grow old and be ignored by men my own age because they can’t get a grip and accept theirs. And while I’m almost positive that my reader-base (ha-ha) is not compromised of 50 something year-old men: get a fucking life and stop asking me to sit in your laps! What I find even more disgusting is the women spending time with these men, promulgating their delusions of grandeur and deflated penises. I haven’t especially endeared myself to the vast majority of people I’ve come across in my lifetime, but this age group in particular can lick my discharge. I don’t care if you’re a plastic surgeon and drive a Porsche (seriously, someone did tell me this only to be followed minutes later by his exact yearly income). You were alive during Vietnam and your porcelain veneers are blinding me. Find someone your own age. That way you two can sit around the fire sipping Chardonnay and reminisce about the good ole days of segregation while complaining about your acid reflux. Not only that, but the thought of having sex with my dad turns my cooter to ice.
Whew! I feel so much better. Thank you internet.
I have a feeling 29 is going to rock. I have one more full year to make a complete ass of myself and chalk it up to stupid things I did “in my twenties.”
And just so you don’t think I hate all older men, a shout out to the one that made me: