Thirty years old. Twenty-five years plus five. Half of sixty. Three decades. Two hundred and ten dog years.
I admit, I do not feel thirty. As the old saying goes, “You’re only as old as you feel.” Well, I guess that makes me…not thirty.
I am surprised natural selection has not picked me off yet, given me my pink slip, my cheap gold watch, a going away party attended by a bunch of slack-jawed, blurry-eyed peers, sipping on weak coffee and eating t00-dry cake, their heads full of thoughts of their own demise. Hey guys, it’s not my fault I’m still here, much to my sometimes dismay, as for whatever reason, I have had this impending sense of doom lately where I am convinced I will not live past thirty. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s my desire to have Billy Joel’s song “Only The Good Die Young” played at my funeral. Or it’s the depression punching me in the head. Either way, it’s a morbid thought.
Having said all of this, I may have just jinxed myself into now becoming the oldest living woman. I’ll be interviewed by the great-grandson of Matt Lauer on the Today Show, an old and wrinkly one hundred plus years, hunched over in a chair, my eyes glazed over with cataracts and just their will to stop working (my god, woman; you’re 112! You’ve seen it all, so forgive us for not wanting to see now), wild white hair sprouting from my head, but oddly enough, I’ll still have that same mischievous grin, and somewhere deep in the catacombs of my ancient brain, the memories of all my years, hidden away. Every now and again, a memory will come to me, and my eyes will sparkle with familiarity and that grin will slowly creep across my mouth.
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all. Living beyond thirty, that is.
However, I have decided I’m going to observe the Patton Oswalt Theory of Birthdays from this day forward: I am now only allowed to celebrate each decade of life, so for instance, next year’s birthday (31) is moot and pointless, but I can celebrate forty, fifty, sixty, ect, until–Good Karl Willing–I make it to ninety-years-old. At ninety, you are legally allowed to steal, because if you’re some decrepit oldie trying to steal a flat screen tv out of the back of the truck and you can accomplish this without ripping your shoulders from their sockets and pooping your pants, then by golly, you deserve that tv. At one hundred, you are legally allowed to commit murder. At one hundred and ten years, you automatically become President of the United States.
I think that’s a genius idea.
Okay then. Oh, and before I forget, my 1000 Word A Day Until My Birthday Word Count total is…10,538. Not too shabby.
Alright. I’m done for now. I hope you all have a safe 4th, and remember the REAL reason for today–for dumbasses to get real hurt real bad by playing with miniature explosives. And my birthday. Mostly my birthday. But not Tom Cruise’s birthday, because he’s a liar, and he was actually born on July 3rd.
Happy 4th of July!