Well I haven’t gotten any hate mail from the last post, so I’ll continue filling in for Courtney a little longer. There were a couple of requests (albeit from the same person) for me to kick off storytime with my tale of the cab driver shooting. Well, Tiffany, that will come in due time. You see, one thing I have learned about the fairer sex is that, if you give them everything they want on the second date, they aren’t going to value you as much later.
And that’s all this is after all. We’re in the bliss phase of the blogger-blogee(?) relationship. I’m still getting a kick out of the novelty of blathering on to complete strangers, and you’re bemused by the sudden change of pace. If my relationship analogy holds up, after about six weeks, I will have depleted my finite stash of interesting stories, and you’re going to want Courtney back. We’ll try to remain friends. It won’t work, and after a couple of late-night drunken blog posts that we’ll both regret the morning, we’ll move on. It’s not you. It’s me.
Today I want to highlight some symptoms of old age I have been noticing in myself lately. For starters, completely against my will, I turned 30 last month (pause for groans from anyone who is older than me). Like it or not, 30 is that magical age when you are forced to release your death grip on the argument that you’re still in your 20s, which is technically still young. Furthermore, I’ve recently taken to listening to the 90s on 9 channel of XM radio. Do you remember when our parents would listen to the oldies channel in the car, declaring to anyone within earshot that they were one hip replacement away from starting to buy adult diapers? Bam. I’m that guy. When did Third Eye Blind become oldies? Around the same time that I got my Middle Age Club membership card in the mail.
Getting older is not all bad though. For instance, being married rocks. There is something incredibly secure and peaceful about coming home to someone who knows all of the less-than-glamorous stuff about you and loves you anyway. I can honestly say that I am more excited about starting a family with my wife than I ever was about going to prom or pitching in a big game or any of the other things around which my young life revolved. Luckily for me, I don’t have to wait too long for that, since she is due on New Years Eve. We’re having a girl-or as I like to call her-karmic whiplash.
So I’ll get to the crazy stories of my immodest days gone by, but for now, I’m just sitting back and watching this new chapter in my life unfold. Besides, if I had told the cabdriver shooting story right away, do you think Tiffany would have called me the next day? I doubt it.