The werewolf was thrust through the doors of The 29 Club today. As we get older, each passing year seems to elapse quicker than the previous one. It's like compound interest, except applied to time, perspective and speed. Years felt like lifetimes during the ignorant days of my youth. Perhaps the dull and mundane routine of elementary school combined with a lack of perspective is what made time feel so slow back in the day. Now, I am desperately searching for way to put the brakes on time.
In many ways, I'd liken my experience during my 20s to the "Roaring 20s" in American history. The early and mid-part of the decade were loaded with excitement, opportunity, and optimism. However, as the end of the decade approached, the bubble I was living in violently burst, and getting back-on-track has proven a Herculean task. 28 was an incredibly shitty year by most metrics for the werewolf, so although somewhat ambivalent about crossing the threshold, he hopes that the psychological chance to start afresh actually lends itself to something tangible and measurable.
It's freaky to think I am fast approaching 30, which is halfway to 60, which in turn is more than halfway to certain death. I graduated from high school in June of 2000 and can vividly recall most of the past decade. I am slightly more than a decade away from being 40, which used to seem geriatric and unimaginably far off when I was a whelp. In turn, the optimistic vitality of youth has given-way to the dark realities of mortality and getting my crap in order. In some ways, I have meet my internal goals for myself, in other ways, I have fallen drastically short. Oddly, the expansive and ambitious certainty that governed my disposition a few years ago has morphed into something that is far less certain and much more aware of the constraints and limitations that exist.
Things I have noticed the last few years:
I can no longer metabolize chill-cheese bacon burgers and double-dipped milkshakes with the same enthusiasm and carelessness of my teenage years. Still few things are as grand as a dozen raw oysters, a rare dry-aged porterhouse, warm buttered bread, and a giant baked potato with the works.
The hair on my head is diminishing resource. Despite my emotional protests, it seems to be recolonizing down my back.
Hard-drinking and partying with reckless abandon is still fun and admirable. 2-day Hangovers aren't.
I can live just fine without vodka. However, the mere thought of going sans bourbon, gin, rye, or rum is truly depressing.
I am struggling with the trends in humor or perhaps what passes for current humor isn't funny. With a few current expectations, movies and television isn't as funny as it used to be. I still yearn to play golf at Bushwood Country Club, go to Wally World, trade pork belly futures with the Duke Brothers, travel to Zumunda, and find that Torino with no wheels in East St. Louis.
Freedom and individuality are growing scarce. Cherish them.
You start to really know who your friends are and will be. Long standing relationships, rich with history, are one of the most gratifying things we experience.
Our entry visas on this planet are truly brief, before our exit visa gets stamped. It is time to start making each-and-every day count.
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