Here are fifteen things I know about myself at 40 years old that I didn’t know when I was 20. I hope this can be of some help to those of you still trying to find your way through the forest of enlightenment (Huh?).
I’m convinced that an evil agribusiness conglomerate (not sure what conglomerate means) injects kids’ food with a chemical that activates the brain’s pleasure center. I know this is anecdotal, but whenever I gorge on Teddy Grahams, I feel like I don’t need to take my Wellbutrin that night. The yellow powdery cheddar cocaine that comes in a box of Macaroni and Cheese could cure the world of sadness. Sometimes I rub a little on my gums and stay up all night vacuuming toys. Continue…
I think I’m the most emotionally and socially vulnerable while getting a haircut. Why do they make me wear a gown? Moments after sitting down, I already look ridiculous. My stylist always does some kind of diagnostic fluffing that leaves me looking like I lost a pillow fight. Then comes the washing and drying, which never seem to be followed by any combing, brushing or even patting-down. I’m left to scoot back to my chair missing only an IV stand to complete my mental patient on dialysis look. Continue…
It was the largest beet I’d ever seen. They’re listed as “challenging” in the juicing book, which I believe is code for “NO!!!!!” After 20 minutes of prepping, washing, and liquefying pears, carrots, apples and a shrunken mummy head on which Whole Foods placed a sticker that read “beet”, I had a half-full pitcher of purple liquid that I would clearly have to pour down my gullet at great speed — this was not the kind of juice I wanted to taste. Continue…
Waaaaa, I’ve gained weight. But who doesn’t throw on a nice Crisco trenchcoat between the ages of 35 and 39? Meth heads? Good point. Like most modern dudes of my ilk, I’m not doing traditional manly stuff like nation building and wench buying. Back in our heyday, we could get fat and just be the sloppy kings who spill food into our ruffles. Now self-respect, at least for me, has more to do with looking decent (which is honestly the best I can do) than the size of the blonde babe’s rack on the back of my motorcycle. Continue…
