thoughts on thirty
I’m not going to get involved in some recap of my 20’s which, for the most part, were pretty good (I determine “goodness/badness” based on two factors: one is that I’m still alive and two is that I managed to sleep with at least one woman in there, so I guess I had a good run). Nor will I lay out plans for what will be my fourth decade on earth, as that makes me tired, and, let’s be honest, there’s no way I’m going to survive decade four. Instead, I’m going to tackle three promises that I made to myself that started with “When I turn 30…” and see how they’ve turned out.
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“When I turn 30, I will retire from the blog.” True, when I started this lil’ internet diary when I was 24, I never thought that I’d still be doing it six years later – and more astonishingly, still using the same four jokes (namely, I’m fat, I don’t get laid, I like beer, and, um, I’m fat). But also true is that I thought my book was supposed to come out by the first publisher in April 2007 (whoops!) and now will come out from the second publisher in March 2010 (yes!). And also also true is that just a few days ago I was more or less told “Hey, fat chops – you wanna maybe think about posting more than twice a month? You know we’re actually going to want to sell copies of this book, right?” So I’m just gonna keep on truckin’, friends, and do my best to give you at least two a week, just like old times. Blog on.
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“When I turn 30, I will marry whatever girl I happen to be dating.” I had said and written this numerous, numerous times in my 20’s, mostly because I feel that love is arbitrary and random; if you truly believe that God made one person out there just for you, and your life’s quest is to find him/her so that you can be together forever, please come over to my place tonight so I can burn you with cigarettes and break you down emotionally/psychologically (and also, get over yourself – God’s got better shit to do). As a society, we are too spoiled romantically and seek perfection in a potential mate, often to our own detriment. In short, as long you enjoy talking, kissing and laughing with a person – and they don’t beat you or steal from you while you sleep – you can probably marry them. So shut up already and just do it.
And while I thought 30 might be a good arbitrary age to settle down, now that I am actually 30, oh no. No, no, no. Instead, I think that no man should marry before the age of 35 and no woman should marry before the age of 30. Allow me to explain:
- The most important thing in life, if I may wax philosophical for a moment, is experience. It goes without saying that there are certain experiences that you can not have once you are married, from “I’m gonna go out tonight and blow two guys” to “I think I’m going to take a last-minute vacation to San Diego, because, well, fuck it.” Once you have committed to being married to a person, one part of your life – the selfish, awesome part – ends, and another – the long, slow march toward death – begins. Therefore, don’t rush into things.
(Speaking of experience, if I may really wax philosophical for a moment, the best advice I’ve ever heard and the advice I try to live by is: If you ever regret something, regret it because you did it, not because you didn’t do it. I have found over the years that this does not apply to infidelity, anything illegal, or snorting something you found on the street that you think is cocaine but, boy, whatever that is, it ain’t cocaine. Otherwise, it’s golden.)
- 35 is a good age for a man to be married mostly because, well, it’s five years away from how old I am now. That should buy me enough time to get my shit together.
- Women are the most engaging and wondrous creatures on earth and I swear, I don’t think they really hit their peak until they hit around 30. By that time, the crazy’s (mostly) out of their system, they know what they want and have a good idea how to get it, and they know how to work it and look terrific. I look at the women I’m friends with around my age and want to applaud them; I look at the guys I’m friends with around my age and want to suggest we start running together or take the next step and look into rogaine.
(Not to mention, while it may be awesome to sleep with a younger girl – and I’ve read that it really, really is – women become better lays when they get a little older. Again, from what I’ve read. This is purely an academic discussion we’re having here.)
- I think that, generally, anything greater than a five-year age difference is no good. It can get a little creepy, but also because in my experience, dating girls more than five years younger than me is a little more difficult. My family didn’t have a computer until I was a freshman in college, and I didn’t get a cell phone until I graduated college (I remember there was one guy who had a cell phone senior year at BC and we all thought he was an ostentatious d-bag). I don’t know exactly what this has to do with anything, but dating a girl that was in grade school when I was drinking in college…well, I just don’t think I have the energy to sustain that, unless the woman involved is really interested in the story about how that one night I was so drunk that I ate the pizza too quickly and burned the roof of my mouth over and over again. Five years or shorter works fine. There’s enough common ground there.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m not getting engaged tonight. Check back in five years.
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“When I turn 30, I will kill myself if I’m still in LA.” This is, to be sure, very disappointing. I am a charming, well-liked man; I like to drink beer and partake in revelry; and my 30th birthday happens to fall on a Friday – and I have absolutely no plans to celebrate, neither tonight nor at any point this weekend. I have only two friends in LA that I could count on to show up at any birthday get-together that I might have, and one is away at a wedding and the other’s in Europe. Therefore, any sort of birthday “party” would be an exercise in shame and embarrassment, resulting in me promising the bartender that “No, some people are on the way, I swear – traffic’s real bad” before I slink away to the bathroom and escape out the back door. So tonight, on the night of my 30th birthday, I’m going to go home, watch baseball, drink beer and do laundry. The highlight of the night will be either if I play with myself or decide to walk down to the Coldstone at Pico & Westwood for a medium (hey, maybe large!) cake batter and Oreo mix.
BUT, do not feel pity toward me, dear friends, for two reasons: 1) I have just returned from a two-week east coast vacation, where I did plenty o’ celebration, and next week I’ll be in Boston for a long weekend for a wedding, where more celebrations will occur; and 2) in the next day or two, I’m booking a 2500 square foot two-bedroom suite in Vegas for the weekend of 9/19, where all of my buddies and I are going to celebrate a collective/joint 30th extravaganza (the idea is that me and two others will stay in the suite, but will tell everyone else to come out and book their own cheap rooms nearby; then they throw us a couple of bucks to offset the cost of the suite and they/we can all party in there all weekend). This should be slightly more than a little fun.
So based on these two factors, I’m fine with “celebrating” not-really this weekend. Well, I’m not totally fine – I did want that threesome, but that ship has seemingly sailed (for now – I’ll try again when the book comes out). But beer, baseball and ice cream or masturbation (I’m too old to do both – it’s kinda hard to work it out with a belly full of ice cream) is ok with me.
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Otherwise, I have to say, I think I’m just hitting my prime, and I do not fear 30. Let’s the good times roll and happy birthday to me.
[And though the economy's in bad shape, that does not change the fact that I still love beer. I assure you that any birthday donations made via the link on the right will be promptly spent on alcohol or gambling-related pursuits. Thank you in advance.]
