1/3 of my life
I fell asleep before midnight, jetlag, and woke up around 3:30 a.m. for a piss and a glass of water. Happy Birthday, Joe. 25 Year’s of Excellence. Or, as another friend said, “forever closer to 30 than 20.” People my age own houses. They’ve directed seminal works, and published books. They have children. I feel behind. Maybe I should start getting up earlier. Maybe I’ll start doing push-ups. And I’ll write every day.
I fall back to sleep trying to convince myself that my best years are still to come; that I haven’t peaked. Now I’m watching “Hogan Knows Best,” and I’m having those doubts again. Even so, I’m trying to be a little less morose this year. I’m smiling a lot. And I managed to sneak in that first movie in just under a quarter of a century. That felt good. And it felt good to come home to the ol’ U. S. of A. I’ve been feeling patriotic all week. I wore blue jeans and a pocket t-shirt while changing a tire. I even went to the DMV and didn’t mind it it.
FOUR DAYS LATER:
Ok, I haven’t done any push-ups, but I did get up early on Sunday. So… nothing’s changed. Each birthday I’m quietly nostalgic, a little glum even, but I write these reluctantly optimistic posts for, I don’t know, personal inspiration or something. Maybe I write them because I’m terrified I really don’t have anything to say; that I’ve existed for 25 years and I really truely have nothing to say. I’m beginning to think that I’d feel like I had more to say if I wasn’t always trying to write reluctantly optimistic and nostalgic blog entries. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wrote this very same post when I turned twenty-four. I may have written this very same post about every birthday for the past 10 or so and I’d really be none the wiser. So what, then, should I say about 25?
Here’s the conclusion I’ve arrived at after a quarter-century: I live in America and I can eat Taco Bell anytime I feel like it, day or night. It’s delicious.