Well, tomorrow's the day. The big three-one. Past thirty and officially headed down the treacherous path to Forty. More gray hairs, I suppose. And sometime between now and Forty I will quit smoking. Will I have kids? Will I ever get married? Will I ever earn the right to call myself an author? Will I be able to afford health insurance and a house? Will I ever crack 150 lbs.?
Ten years ago I was asking myself if I'd ever own the car of my dreams. If I'd ever be famous. If I'd ever make it through to college. If I'd ever bag that hot chick who haunts my dreams, Salma Hayek. If I'd ever fall in love (and get married and have kids). If I'd ever find contentment. Or if I'd die before realizing all those dreams.
My, how things have changed. Good Lord, how my self-doubts have shifted. Dear God, how did I get here (aside from that whole birds-and-the-bees thing)? Holy shit, how did my expectations drop so abysmally low?!?
Tomorrow, if I do indeed get the chance to sit down with my family for a while, I think I'll ask my mom what she knows about me that I haven't been clued in on yet. Moms are good at that kinda thing, I hear. I think my heart can stand it now. Better do it now, before my heart-attack years get into full swing.
Tomorrow I start a new decade on this planet and I find myself concerned with... no, don't say it. Please don't say it! Dammit.
Why couldn't I have been Han Solo instead? There were never any high-stakes adventures in my past, but I somehow feel that I've let them slip by me when I wasn't looking, like they could have been there if only I'd paid attention. I look down at my feet and see leg hair, toe nails which need to be clipped, scars on my knees and my wasted youth, writhing on the floor, gasping for air and promising vengeance at Forty.
That's gotta count for something when your Young Self plots revenge for a wasted life, right? Egad. This is how a mid-life crisis begins, isn't it?
I hope to one day earn the right to say, with all sincerity, "I'm too old for this shit."