Sunday, December 23, 2018
Holiday Message 2018
I turned forty this year, which was (1) likely a fatal blow to my ambitions of making Forty Amateur Acupuncturists Under Forty, (2) mounting proof that I do not in fact suffer from Benjamin Button Syndrome, and (3) perfectly fine and nice and exhausting in the way most birthdays are after the age where you can get away with ingesting your weight in Pixie Stix and vomiting in a bounce house, which I am told is thirty-five. The most notable thing about turning forty was that it was not really particularly notable; waking up at forty and half-watching a Frasier rerun on the COSI network whilst I Sonicared and was yet again surprised by the fact that I forgot to buy Q-tips felt very much like falling asleep while trying to catch up on roughly thirty-seven months of unread New Yorkers (say, this Brexit thing could be crazy, right?) at thirty-nine. I guess we see the signposts pass on the freeway of life, but we rarely make the time to stop and check them out, unless they direct us to the world’s biggest ball of paint or a super sweet Applebee’s or something.
But now that I am sort of indisputably an adult (lots of thirty-nine year olds still let their mothers argue with the gas company for them, right?), I have found myself thinking more about what people of my age are “supposed” to do, unfortunately. Should a grown man be portraying a rat in a legally-themed musical comedy show? Is it okay for someone on the verge of a pill minder and an early bird special to also be sharing a vacation house with sixteen people, some of whom are friends of friends who talk a concerning amount about unusual experiences they have had inhaling ordinary household products? And what about holiday messages? Isn’t there some sort of statute of limitations after which word vomiting about your life and whichever celebrity most colorfully hit rock bottom that year (we’re not allowed to say Demi Lovato because things got real real there), and posting it for the world to see shifts from thoughtful and arguably interesting to sad and kind of desperate?
Well, I guess let’s hope not, because here we are. Or rather, here I am; you’re probably off spearfishing with Meghan Markle on Jay-Z’s private island and getting answers to all of your burning questions about the set of Suits while I slave away. But ultimately I decided that the holiday messages were harmless even if potentially age inappropriate, sort of like Madonna. And besides, what else am I going to do with all my spare time? Find out what Jan Hetfleisch, my German Club pen pal, has been up to since the seventh grade? Actually, I just googled him and he’s like some kind of war photographer, but I totally put like three pennies in the “have a penny, need a penny” tray at 7-11 the other day, so I don’t know what he’s bragging about.
Anyway, happy holidays! I hope this message finds you well, and I really mean that, as I tend to handle bad news with the emotional maturity of Paula Abdul after three horse tranquilizers. My big event for the year was definitely the birth of my niece, Maggie, who may well be the most easygoing baby of all time, although I’m disappointed by her inability (or unwillingness) to comically foil bumbling criminals while avoiding construction mishaps a la the 1994 classic Baby’s Day Out. Ian and I also made a return visit to Vienna, where everything looks beautiful but no one can sell you an Imodium, took a side trip to Bratislava, where I swear to God there were live chickens in the train station, and went to Vail, the home of $20,000 sweaters and people high enough to potentially buy them. I’ve continued to work in the white collar group at Seyfarth Shaw LLP, which is exactly like the hit USA television series White Collar, except that I’ve actually seen it. And we’re still living in Old Town, a neighborhood that offers residents quaint, tree-lined streets without having to give up the urban thrill of knowing that someday, somewhere, a random stranger may still try to spit in your mouth.
So this is me at forty. I’m probably attending fewer yacht parties than I’d prefer, but mostly I’m just happy to be here wishing you a great 2019.
I turned forty this year, which was (1) likely a fatal blow to my ambitions of making Forty Amateur Acupuncturists Under Forty, (2) mounting proof that I do not in fact suffer from Benjamin Button Syndrome, and (3) perfectly fine and nice and exhausting in the way most birthdays are after the age where you can get away with ingesting your weight in Pixie Stix and vomiting in a bounce house, which I am told is thirty-five. The most notable thing about turning forty was that it was not really particularly notable; waking up at forty and half-watching a Frasier rerun on the COSI network whilst I Sonicared and was yet again surprised by the fact that I forgot to buy Q-tips felt very much like falling asleep while trying to catch up on roughly thirty-seven months of unread New Yorkers (say, this Brexit thing could be crazy, right?) at thirty-nine. I guess we see the signposts pass on the freeway of life, but we rarely make the time to stop and check them out, unless they direct us to the world’s biggest ball of paint or a super sweet Applebee’s or something.
But now that I am sort of indisputably an adult (lots of thirty-nine year olds still let their mothers argue with the gas company for them, right?), I have found myself thinking more about what people of my age are “supposed” to do, unfortunately. Should a grown man be portraying a rat in a legally-themed musical comedy show? Is it okay for someone on the verge of a pill minder and an early bird special to also be sharing a vacation house with sixteen people, some of whom are friends of friends who talk a concerning amount about unusual experiences they have had inhaling ordinary household products? And what about holiday messages? Isn’t there some sort of statute of limitations after which word vomiting about your life and whichever celebrity most colorfully hit rock bottom that year (we’re not allowed to say Demi Lovato because things got real real there), and posting it for the world to see shifts from thoughtful and arguably interesting to sad and kind of desperate?
Well, I guess let’s hope not, because here we are. Or rather, here I am; you’re probably off spearfishing with Meghan Markle on Jay-Z’s private island and getting answers to all of your burning questions about the set of Suits while I slave away. But ultimately I decided that the holiday messages were harmless even if potentially age inappropriate, sort of like Madonna. And besides, what else am I going to do with all my spare time? Find out what Jan Hetfleisch, my German Club pen pal, has been up to since the seventh grade? Actually, I just googled him and he’s like some kind of war photographer, but I totally put like three pennies in the “have a penny, need a penny” tray at 7-11 the other day, so I don’t know what he’s bragging about.
Anyway, happy holidays! I hope this message finds you well, and I really mean that, as I tend to handle bad news with the emotional maturity of Paula Abdul after three horse tranquilizers. My big event for the year was definitely the birth of my niece, Maggie, who may well be the most easygoing baby of all time, although I’m disappointed by her inability (or unwillingness) to comically foil bumbling criminals while avoiding construction mishaps a la the 1994 classic Baby’s Day Out. Ian and I also made a return visit to Vienna, where everything looks beautiful but no one can sell you an Imodium, took a side trip to Bratislava, where I swear to God there were live chickens in the train station, and went to Vail, the home of $20,000 sweaters and people high enough to potentially buy them. I’ve continued to work in the white collar group at Seyfarth Shaw LLP, which is exactly like the hit USA television series White Collar, except that I’ve actually seen it. And we’re still living in Old Town, a neighborhood that offers residents quaint, tree-lined streets without having to give up the urban thrill of knowing that someday, somewhere, a random stranger may still try to spit in your mouth.
So this is me at forty. I’m probably attending fewer yacht parties than I’d prefer, but mostly I’m just happy to be here wishing you a great 2019.
