So I turned 27 the other day. Just saying in case you missed the four billion times I mentioned it in the past couple of weeks. All in all I’m excited for this upcoming year. If you can’t call yourself an adult at 27, shit, when can you? 26 has some sort of immaturity to it, at least for me. 27 was the age my parents got married, so for me it’s the bench mark. I’m not living in a country house lacking plumbing and making pottery, so as far as they’re concerned, I’m successful.
27 is also the year that all my friends tell me that my body is supposed to fall apart. Granted, they told me this at 25 and 26 as well. Like there’s a cholesterol boogey man around the corner just waiting for me to hit a certain age. I get a yearly check up, a thorough physical, mainly as an evidential procedure to merit continuing to live life in the semi Bukowski manner that I wish to emulate. Fortunately for me, this happened right before my birthday and all was, of course, very well. Hence the bacchanalian multi week celebration.
Aging has never really scared me. Besides the fact that I’ve got a family history of dry old man skin to look forward to, most of the family has done it gracefully. In fact, it’s always been something I’ve looked forward to. Mostly in the hope that one of these days my nose is going wither down to a manageable size. So what’s the big deal with 27? Why the hoopla?
Quater life crisis time? A good friend of mine hit 27 a while ago and crumbled under the pressure of not being married and in a dead end job. He went absolutely bonkers, it’s been kind of fun to watch, albeit a little sad. Like a chicken without a head but with a proclivity for late night parties, he’s been all over town, hiding from the original reason he flipped out in the first place.
I never got quarter life crises. If you have one, you’re basically saying that you only examine your life once every twenty five years. Way to succumb and show everyone how mentally lazy you are. But I digress.
Nah. Nothing has changed. My hangovers last an extra hour or so, I still get sore if I try to play a sport. In fact, the only thing that made me take notice of my new age was the elliptical machine at my gym. During my warm up, my target heart rate has always been 155. However, now that I’ve just turned the corner and busted through the border of late twenties land, I only need to make it to 154 to be officially “warmed up.”
Thanks gym machine. And here I was so steadfast in my belief that age ain’t nothin’ but a number. Get offa my lawn.