If I had my life to live over, I’d be 70.
There’s something manly about turning 35. It’s an age that says, “no more screwing around.” In some ways, literally, because you work to the point of exhaustion and your gut makes it harder to squeeze into the latex body condom.
Mozart wrote an opera at the age of 5. About a month ago, I arrived to work with my shirt inside out. Genius is not spread. Rather, it arrives from Heaven in clumps. I once dated a girl who believed OJ was innocent. This did not kill the relationship. Ironically, what killed the relationship was that every time I touched her, she acted like I just stuck a hunting knife into her chest.
When a man reaches his 35th year, it’s natural that he take a quiet inventory of his life. It’s quiet because you’d rather not let anyone overhear the contents. So far, I’ve owned two Pontiac Grand Prix and I have yet to win a Nobel Prize. Furthermore, my odds of becoming Batman are worsening by the second.
People say to me, “Wow, you’re 35?” I expect them to follow it up with, “I thought you’d be more accomplished.” What? The 2001 Honda Accord isn’t enough for you? Or the closet of shirts that don’t quite fit around my stomach? Or are you colored by the fact that I eat the free Hot Pockets in the company fridge rather than spring for a real lunch every now and then?
Twenty-five is more exciting than 35 because at 25 you still can’t believe that the police allow you drive a car. And you drink pretentious foreign beers because you think you’re the only one who’s ever heard of them. Plus you’re able to scale a chain link fence without shattering every vertebra in your back.
I’m at the age where I’d rather be seen pants-less than shirtless.
Not because I’m sporting a fascinating kickstand. I just don’t like showcasing my stomach. I’m about a year away from being The T-Shirt Wearing Guy at the beach. I used to make fun of that guy. When I was 25.
In just ten short years, my prostate will be free game to any physician with a latex glove and a degree in proctology. I’ll pay far more attention to the Weather Channel than is necessary. And should we be punished with another recession, my losses will be in the thousands instead of the hundreds. I’ll buy a motorcycle, and the instant I feel it wobble on the freeway I’ll sell it.
When my father turned 35, his kids were nearly out of high school. Me? I’m still gingerly hauling poopy diapers to the trash. By the time my kids enter college, I’ll be caught staring at a box of Just For Men while thinking, “This could be exactly what I need to get my mojo back.”
Meanwhile, I’m driving 35, and the pace isn’t so bad. I’m a better driver, for instance. And I better appreciate Rod Stewart songs, because unlike ten years ago, I now know that Rod is speaking to me. I feel that a kinship with Billy Joel isn’t so far off.