"You look great for your age."
It's kind of a backhanded compliment, isn't it? On one hand, you're telling someone he or she looks great. And on the other, you're telling him or her they're old. I turned 34 over the weekend. Shocking. Not to you...to me. Because, when I look in the mirror, I still see the gawky teenager with his arm raised over his head, searching/praying for armpit hair. But I am in fact 34. A "thirtysomething." In my "mid-thirties." I'm starting to ask for decaf after dinner, think kids drive too fast or carelessly, and look at hot 22-year olds and say, "they're just babies." And I hope it's just coincidence that cardigan sweaters have made a comeback. Because even if they hadn't, I'd probably be wearing them anyways.
So the next time I'm surprised by the youthful appearance of someone over 30, I'm going to respectfully say "okay." Because until 3 days ago, I, like so many well-intended others, regularly went with the line, "Oh! You look great for your age." But thanks to a conversation with a 23-year old cocktail waitress at the perpetually immature Cabo Cantina 3 days ago, I resolved to delete the aforementioned stock response from my operating system. When Shannon learned of my birthday, she guessed I was 27. I was elated. A little too excited. She probably thought I was a dancer. And when I told her I was actually turning 34 in about 16 minutes, she sincerely told me I look great for my age.
That's when it hit me. I'm at the age now where people younger than you begin to take pity on you. No 26-year old gets told he looks great for his age. 34 is about the time when shit starts to fall apart. 34 is the plateau at the top of the bell curve, and you'll soon begin your gradual descent into stiffness, dessert-regret and elbow/knee support braces during any physical activity. That's where I am. Careful not to linger here too long...it can get a little depressing.
But life is yin and yang, thank god. While I could see this solely as the commencement of my physical deterioration, fortunately my life needs and interests also shift. I have interests that don't require me to look my finest, binge on tequila and dance til dawn. I actually have interests that require me to think my sharpest, try my hardest and be committed and creative. Kind of boring, compared to hot-tubbing with hot 22-year olds. But that shit is flash and fleeting. And when you start "looking good for your age," you're ready to enjoy life with a little or a lot less flash. You're ready to start making your mark. I think that my childhood has officially ended. No need to be sad. I can spill a few drops for the fallen ghosts of my previous self. But now is the perilous time where if you don't grow, you'll start earning your chevrons for being the creepy guy at the club. If you still want to go to the club every weekend, then some other needs of yours just haven't kicked in. Now is about the time when you begin to get stuck in pussygetterland...a place where men wear clothing styles ten years their junior. A place where they conduct fashion experiments like accessorizing with an ivory cane or a doo-rag beneath their fedoras. It's a scary place to be, and you can become a caricature almost instantly. Ask me about the guy with Sandra at the Dodgers game some time. No thanks.
Back to reality.
I heard someone say that life begins at 40. I'm fucking betting the farm on that one. It better come through. I'm trusting my gut on that one. Because while my face might not have changed that much, my brain and needs have. So call me in 10 years. If I'm living in a modest but beautiful home in a wonderful city, then you'll know I won the bet. Life began at 40. And you'll come over for a barbeque with some good conversation and some cold Mexican beers. And be sure to bring your swim suit. Because, there will definitely be a hot tub out back.
