I woke up Wednesday morning with a distinct sense of urgency. I would be turning 35 the next day. For the last 6 weeks or so I have kept a cagey eye on 35, not wanting to give it the satisfaction of catching me looking. I lay in bed pondering the idea that I could be drafted as point guard for the Lakers now, and during my first interview I would face the press and they would begin their questions-
When are you going to buy a house?
Are you seeing anyone?
do you want to have kids someday?
That’s right. I can feel the pressure ratcheting up. What was “free-spirited and adventurous” at 23 becomes “unmotivated” at 28, becomes “unfortunate” at 30, becomes “weird” at 35.
I’ve always been stubborn and averse to good, sensible advice from people who care about me (What are they up to? Who sent them? What do they really want?) and I can’t say that particular trait has served me well. On the other hand I’m also know for last-minute comeback heroics. When I was a baby my mom tells me they had just about given up on having a child who would learn to walk. I didn’t even bother crawling. My preferred method of travel was scooting backwards propelled by a jackknifing left leg across the terrazo floors. One day, as my parents watched their retarded, or maybe just lazy son move backwards on his ass through life, I just stood up and walked across the room to them. That’s still my style. When the time is right I will buy the shit out of that house. I will marry the hell out of some woman, and we will raise the crap out of some kids. I hope the house is woodsy, the woman is latina, and the kids can learn to walk, one way or another.
I forgot to tell you about my life-affirming, not dead yet, solo ride to Munson. The drivetrain, oh it tried me, but I think we’re starting to get along now. More on that later.