I’m 30 years old. I’ve crossed that threshold that as a child I always assumed meant you were a fortified adult. Anything over 30 to me meant you had your shit in order, you were making enough bank to afford whatever you wanted, and you knew how to do taxes. None of that stuff has happened to me yet. I honestly still am not sure how taxes work, beyond that they appear to be bullshit cooked up by the government to keep us hard working Americans from ever being able to reach living comfortably and not needing to suck on Uncle Sams teet.
I am lucky to live with my girlfriend, because honestly I don’t think I’d be alive if I didn’t. I am not someone who should be on his own. I have the mentality of Kevin McCallister in Home Alone. Literally. I was left to my own devices to provide dinner for myself last night, as the girlfriend was at a concert and wouldn’t be home til well past my bedtime. Assuming I would ever go to sleep, since again, I have the mentality of a child. This is what I brought home.
That right there is a hefty extra cheese half meatball Sicilian pizza. You know it was extra cheese because it actually was cut into slices before leaving the restaurant, yet the cheese molded together by the time the box was opened to form a thick layer of colon clogging goodness.
Normal humans will eat one or two slices of this, that’s enough to fill them up. Not this guy. Not on his night alone. I don’t want to divulge the amount I ate, as it is slightly embarrassing and also not humanly possible for most.
OK fine, I ate basically the entire thing.
Nobody was there to tell me “NO! Put that 6th slice down, fatty.” Today at work I feel like I do most Mondays after a Sunday Funday bender. I am sluggish, sweaty, anxiety ridden and somewhat suicidal. I am not a smart man.
Which again begs the question, when the hell is one considered an adult? I have reached an adult age, I have a steady job, a car, an apartment. Yet I cower in fear at the thought that anyone younger than me might think they can come to me as an adult resource. In fact, I find myself often seeing people younger than me as an adult resource for myself.
The thought of me at 40 is scary. At 30, I still tend to eat ice cream for breakfast on weekends, because thats my God given right. Will that be OK at 40? God forbid I have children. They are royally fucked. Even my dog has to take care of me sometimes.
I couldn’t even tell you the last time I’ve been to the doctor. How does one even make an appointment? I always assumed as a child that all mothers knew doctors office secretaries and could make appointments when necessary. I don’t know what the hell my healthcare allows. I don’t pay attention when checking the boxes at work to sign up. I just go for the cheapest options. I’m pretty sure all I’d be able to see is some guy who lost his license for some malpractice mishap, in the back alley behind a Dennys with tools that say Fisher-Price on them. And even that dude would probably tell me I’ve made awful life choices.For now, I’m gonna just keep ignoring those stinging pains I randomly get internally, much like the check engine light in my truck. Turn the radio up and ignore all my problems. They can’t effect you if you can’t hear.
Anyone who is over 30 and seems to have their shit together, good on you. Enjoy marriage, owning a home, avoiding organ failure, raising kids and getting new cars. I’ll continue coasting through life in my 2008 used pickup with my dog, eating shit, drinking enough to fill a small lake, hating my life and having food coma hangovers every few days at work.