I'm a sneeze away from my thirties, and I fucking hate that. I celebrated my last year in my twenties last month, and I made sure to invite a lot of people in their early twenties just to make me forget. There were three people in their thirties in the guest list. Just three because I don't want to start hanging out with people my technical age yet. Maybe I wanted to get the feel of that age group; they will be my proper crowd in another year, and I might as well start practicing now.I celebrated my 29th birthday last month, and its going to be another eleven months before I'm no longer spunky. I really shouldn't be counting because I've eleven months left to do the kind of things that people in their twenties can get away with. I've another eleven months to maintain the reckless alcoholic that is me during the weekends. I can still be promiscuous and feel appropriate on account of you can't be a horny fag when you're in your thirties because you will be scary. I've another eleven months to revel in form-fitting jeans and my ladies-medium shirts because that same set of clothes are most inappropriate for people in their thirties. It's so hard to have standards; you're midlife crisis gets the worst of it.
People my age are getting married and are beginning to reproduce. It's either that or they're sending their eldest to kindergarten while they're on their second attempts at their youngest. If this, to me, sounds like a news report, then it probably is, because I've been so distracted all these years by the finer gayer things in life to take notice. I was cruising for gay sex whereas they were seriously contemplating an engagement ring. I was getting a tattoo whereas they were getting married. I was faking domestic bliss with my lover whereas they're moving in and starting an actual family. All propped out with the ring and kids sharing their last names. I'm a year away from my thirties, and I look 23 when stressed out, and I'm just beginning to pay attention to what trivial accomplishments I've been mindlessly piling up.
Thankfully, I'm not balding. That will be the death of me.
