When the hell did I become an old fart?
I know everyone says having kids ages you quickly, but last night really hammered it home for me. We had a work function at 6 p.m. and then we were supposed to go out bowling afterward. MJ and I took Will with us, which was funny in and of itself because the event was held at a bar. I always get a kick out of those prissy, holier-than-thou people who look at us like we’re the worst parents in the world when we enter a bar with a baby in our arms. After all, there’s no smoking and neither of us plan on getting shitfaced. What’s the harm?
Anyways, we hang out at the bar for awhile and mingle with co-workers. Will was a champ and he soaked up all the attention like a sponge. Soon it was nearing time to go bowling but a funny thing happened. MJ and I just looked at each other and without saying a word, we told each other volumes. Then we got Will’s coat on, said our goodbyes and went home because we were too damn tired to go out. And then I looked at the clock:
And that’s when I lost it. I was tired and ready to call it a night before 8:30 on a Friday night. I’m the same person who volunteered for redeye trips to Foxwoods on a weeknight. The same guy who would stay out with friends at a bar or club until dawn and then go to work in the morning with little or no sleep. The same guy who could help polish off a keg with a friend in college, but now two beers in 2.5 hours had me sleepy.
But that’s not even the worst of it. I started thinking about how much I’ve changed in the past year or so. And that’s when all the little things started creeping into my mind to taunt me about how old I am.
For instance, I used to party like a rockstar. Drinking on a Friday night, another bar on Saturday night and then football beers on Sunday. That used to be a regular routine with no problem. But if I go drinking for just one night now, it takes me three days to recover! And I used to go to bed in the wee hours of the morning despite having to be at work bright and early. Somehow it never seemed to affect me. Now? I’m in bed by 11 p.m. at the latest. And if not, it takes me a couple days to catch up.
And this is probably too much information, but I used to always sleep in my birthday suit. Summer, winter…didn’t matter. I was free as a bird! But as my years have advanced on me lately, not only do I have clothes on, I’m like Randy in A Christmas Story bundled up for an arctic adventure. Just put me in old man flannel pajamas, give me slippers and fit me with dentures already!
For God’s sake, I’ll be 30 in August. 30!!!!!!!!!! When the hell did that happen. I’m pretty sure I graduated college like 5 minutes ago, yet here am I on the precipice of turning 30 freaking years old. The number 30 just seems so surreal. And old. I mean, MJ’s been 30 for almost a year now. She’s used to being a senior citizen. But me? No way. I’m supposed to youthful and spritely.
Make no mistake, I’m blaming my little bundle of joy for this one. Sure he’s brought us happiness, but he’s also brought me gray hairs, fewer hairs (at least on my head), decreased energy and the inability to rock on like I used to.
My crazy single friends have invited me to their Super Bowl party. I want to go desperately. Normally I’d just jump in the car and go have a wild time. But now I’m thinking things like: “Do I really want to get drunk and then fight a hangover for the next three days?” and “Too much beer really makes my stomach queasy.” Doh! Just take me out to the field and shoot me like Old Yeller.