I turned 36 a few hours ago. I’m not one to get depressed about aging, but this one kinda snuck up and bit me on the ass. I know how stupid people sound when they turn an age you’ve long since known (like this girl on the train who was horrified she was 27), but 36 is almost basically kind of “pushing forty.” I’m now officially out of the coveted 18-35 demographic – as if my Smiths predilection didn’t already do the job – and though I still feel unsettled, immature, and plagued by acne, it’s an age that requires a certain biting of the bullet.
If I’m going to go ahead and turn 36, there are a few things that need to happen, starting tomorrow. I’ll list a few here:
– no more rabid profanity at hoops. Time for that shit to stop. I know it’s some people’s favorite part of playing with me, but it just eggs on some of my lowest behavior and is an immediate path to misery.
– lose 20 pounds. It is in your late thirties, I believe, that you set a course for that vague patch of life that hovers before middle age. Being doughy, having a fucked-up back and hating every photograph is no way to slide into second base.
– lose contempt and embrace several things that you once found anathema: mornings, yoga, eating stuff that actually decreases cancer, etc. This list will grow, I hope, as my modus operandi becomes more expansive.
Oh, and so much more. It seems a bit morose, sitting alone on this dark night at the farm – Tessa and Michelle have long since gone to bed – but thirty-six still sounds old to me, and some things take a bit of meditation. I’ll have to redefine what the age means. Besides, the best thing about getting older is that everyone else does too – even you, fair reader.