This is an R-rated post.
I turn 30 tomorrow.
I was born two weeks late according to some doctors, and what do they know? So, it seemed appropriate to not put off this birthday and show a little more dignity than the day I said good-bye to my gills.
And you know what? It’s not so bad (, he said the day before). Some things are different, but most of them have been slowly evolving that way since 25 or so.
And then, there are the overnight changes. And they’re drastic enough that you should probably keep me chained to a radiator throughout the night, no matter what I say, and keep a silver one in the chamber. Just in case. What could possibly go wrong, you ask?
Pornography has an entirely new context to it
How long have I watched porn? The first actual pornography-pornography I watched–as opposed to Victoria Secret catalogs and that British chick on Nickelodeon GUTS–was on Betamax. Oh yeah, there’s the first two of many dated references.
So from age 11 to 29, porn has been a mostly guilt-free adventure. Watching twenty-somethings pretend to be school girls and babysitters for my amusement was fun that:
- At 11, meant they could have been my classmates or babysitters.
- At 20, eerily reflected the number of proms my friends were still attending.
- At 25, was no big deal because the actors are still about my age, even if the characters should make me feel skeezy.
- At 30, makes me a creepy old man.
It’s only going to get worse from here. Eventually, I will have children, and they will eventually be school girls and babysitters themselves. And MILFS aren’t MILFS if they’re fucking age-appropriate men. That’s just my parents, and I’ve no interest in ever walking in on that again.
I’m that old guy at rock concerts
You know who I’m talking about. Even though I’m not wearing jorts, wraparound sunglasses and a do-rag, I’m sure I’m wearing the equivalent to the age-appropriate crowd. And now I’m paranoid about cargo shorts.
The only safe place for the old guy at the rock show to stand is in the front row to either the extreme right or left (never center stage), next to the black guy at the rock show.
I’m now a late adopter
I got a Blu-Ray player this year. Set it up myself, too.
However, Blu-Ray has been the HD standard since 2008, which means my 2011 purchase says I waited an additional three years after my original lets-see-who-wins-the-HD-war deadline.
And that’s where Google+ comes in. I don’t see the need to move over to it because I still have all of my fake friends on Facebook. Out of those 300 random college classmates, and including five people named Snee that I searched for and added for a lark back in 2003, only about dozen will still be friendly enough to re-add me on their Google+ account. In other words, I’m not ready to face the illusion of my Facebook popularity.
That’s the line I’ve drawn, and I shall not cross it until it means forcing my children into the Kobayashi Maru that is answering an add request from their dad.
Picking my gray hair prayers
The only thing I prayed for more as a young man than free jet skies and improbable workplace sex was to never go bald or gray. But, I accept* these as part of the aging process now, so long as they happen on my terms.
Specifically, I’m OK with balding so long as my hair doesn’t form an atoll. The day I start monk dimin’ is the day I go all Teddy Roosevelt and shave a canal to the front.
And I also don’t mind if I go gray, but hope that it happens gradually. I’d prefer it if the sides of my balls go first so it makes my penis look older, yet distinguished.
*This is actually still the bargaining phase, which lasts until just before I blow out my candles tomorrow, right after I announce my plans to burn down a church and “fuck God where that sombitch lives.”