Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Modern Maturity
I turn 27 this Friday and I have decided that this is going to be my age of maturity. Time to reduce the intake of Tequila shots and up the daily allotment of oat bran. Time to switch off the Ashlee Simpson and get some serious NPR news going. Time to start a 401(k), get a mortgage, and adopt some Vietnamese babies. I’m going all adult, baby. And I don’t mean the fun kind of "adult" with naughty nurses and fourgies.
I mean, I’m going to be old. 27 is the very oldest I personally have ever been. When I was in high school, I don’t think I could even conceive of the concept of 27, although I’m pretty sure I thought I would have an awesome goatee and be a professional ghost hunter by now. And be friends with Pearl Jam, which may not actually be so far out of reach. Call me, Eddie.
I think 27 is maybe the age by which you’re supposed to have everything figured out in your life, big picture issues like love, career, and draft epitaph included. I mean, do you think Thomas Edison was still writing obsessive explications of public transportation etiquette and snarky commentary on children’s TV shows on the internet when he was 27? No, he was inventing the light bulb, or if not, at least he was lying about it when he ran into people from his high school.
"Oh yeah, everything’s going great," he’d say. "Living up in Menlo Park. Just invented a little thing called the light bulb; maybe you’ve heard of it. Bought myself a Ferrari, playing around a little while I’m still young, you know?"
That’s why people hated Thomas Edison.
But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m getting way too old for my many failings to be adorable. Already I feel a shocking urge to eat dinner at 4 PM and tell people to put on sweaters rather than turn up the thermostat.
I turn 27 this Friday and I have decided that this is going to be my age of maturity. Time to reduce the intake of Tequila shots and up the daily allotment of oat bran. Time to switch off the Ashlee Simpson and get some serious NPR news going. Time to start a 401(k), get a mortgage, and adopt some Vietnamese babies. I’m going all adult, baby. And I don’t mean the fun kind of "adult" with naughty nurses and fourgies.
I mean, I’m going to be old. 27 is the very oldest I personally have ever been. When I was in high school, I don’t think I could even conceive of the concept of 27, although I’m pretty sure I thought I would have an awesome goatee and be a professional ghost hunter by now. And be friends with Pearl Jam, which may not actually be so far out of reach. Call me, Eddie.
I think 27 is maybe the age by which you’re supposed to have everything figured out in your life, big picture issues like love, career, and draft epitaph included. I mean, do you think Thomas Edison was still writing obsessive explications of public transportation etiquette and snarky commentary on children’s TV shows on the internet when he was 27? No, he was inventing the light bulb, or if not, at least he was lying about it when he ran into people from his high school.
"Oh yeah, everything’s going great," he’d say. "Living up in Menlo Park. Just invented a little thing called the light bulb; maybe you’ve heard of it. Bought myself a Ferrari, playing around a little while I’m still young, you know?"
That’s why people hated Thomas Edison.
But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m getting way too old for my many failings to be adorable. Already I feel a shocking urge to eat dinner at 4 PM and tell people to put on sweaters rather than turn up the thermostat.
