Wherein the Lead is Buried In the Lead
Tomorrow marks the beginning of my 41st year outside the womb. Still cold and chilly. I have been told by my confederates, those whose odometers have already turned over, that turning 40 caused them to reflect on their lives... what a waste they'd made of them. They warned me: you too will experience this wave of unease as you reflect on the paucity of sound decision-making your history will disclose. You will buy a motorcycle and ride it with me to Starbucks for a diet latte where we will meet a passel of nubiles and then tattoo Cher and Gregg Allman on our buttocks while listening to the triumphant yet wholly misunderstood strains of Rick Astley. I'm never going to let you down, p-man. Neverrr!
To that, I must say, no thank you. No thank you, I said, as I ran towards my sensible compact car and drove off quietly and with very poor acceleration listening to the largely overlooked Aereogramme* and looking forward to seeing Mo who is as I type setting up my birthday celebrations which will include a night at a fine waterfront hotel tomorrow and a largish gathering here on Friday. And the chocolate wasabi cake I love so well. Mmm.
Of course, I am not immune to the introspection of which I was forewarned. My mom gave me a photo album of which I am the subject. Oh, the 80s and 90s were one long bad hair day. (On the positive side, I was thin. With the hair, I looked like a chimney brush with wire-rimmed glasses.)
I have found myself considering more serious errors in judgment both past and present. For one thing, I can seldom pick a winner. For example, from that show "Bosom Buddies", I pegged Peter Scolari for big things! Tom Who? Another error: Andrew Ridgely. Fucking asshat, I thought he had the skills! One consolation: Wopat v Schneider. No-one wins and nobody cares. I also imagined Federer might take Roland Garros one of these years.
So, as you can see, I am one foot from a Ducati and a bimbette. Ot maybe a Vespa and a ripe cantaloupe.
Aged but not cured,
* My GP recommended their final album to me. He was, um, examining me as he whispered their name... admiring my tattoo of Gregg Allman. Do me a favour on my birthday and buy this album. Do the band a favour. Be the person to buy the 23rd copy copy in Canada!
Labels: My aging self