Issue #110 – “731 Days” – June 11th, 2007

-Upon turning twenty-eight next week, only 731 days will remain before my thirtieth birthday.  This realization is frightening, because I’ve found that twentysomethings generally pass judgment on other people’s age without paying attention to their own.  For instance, a twenty-eight-year-old pilot at the airport seems young to me; a twenty-eight-year-old chick on MySpace seems old to me.  But a twenty-eight-year-old sitting in the airport checking his MySpace (i.e., me) seems just right.  With that in mind, over the past few months I’ve tried to pay careful attention to what turning twenty-eight really means and what the last 731 days of my twenties might be like.  First observation:  calculating to the day exactly how much time you have left in your twenties is really unhealthy, neurotic, and weird.

-You know you’re twenty-eight when, for the first time in your life, you turn to your buddy and complain that the bar you’re in is “too loud.”

-You know you’re twenty-eight when you find yourself reading Maxim while taking a shit in your apartment and thinking to yourself, “Why the hell do I still subscribe to Maxim?”

-When your birthday nears, girls find out what zodiac sign you are.  Chicks seem to find it interesting that I’m a Gemini.  Some of the most intelligent women I know read their horoscopes religiously.  Who the mother-fuck cares?  It’s all bullshit!  If I bang a Libra, I don’t think, “Our moons must be aligned!”  No, I’m just wondering how I even managed to take her home since the bar was so goddamn loud.

-You know you’re twenty-eight when, every once in a while, you turn on Saturday Night Live and realize you’ve never even heard of the musical guest.

-You know you’re twenty-eight when you start scheduling your hangovers.  My dentist’s office recently called me to set up an appointment a month away and I was like, “Well, that Saturday morning doesn’t quite work for me.  The night before I have a wedding so the next day is blocked off for a hangover that I just can’t reschedule.”

-The older women get, the more they tend to want to get married soon.  But strangely enough, the older I get, the less I want to get married soon.  Girls sometimes find my outlook frustrating, but I merely tell them with a smile that unreasonableness is a common trait in Geminis.

-You know you’re twenty-eight when – since you’ve stared at them so much – you can point out the exact location of each of your gray hairs with your eyes closed.

-And, painfully, you know you’re twenty-eight when SportsCenter refers to LeBron James as a “veteran” and you realize he’s a full five years younger than you are.  In fact, one of the scariest parts about having two years to go before thirty is the knowledge that the next 731 days are your last chance to accomplish something notable – be it in your personal or professional life – while still in your twenties.   So whether your poison is Maxim or the horoscope page, it’s time to put that shit down and get focused.  731 days is not a whole lot of time – and you’re not getting any younger.

-As always, here are some random things I’ve been ruminating about lately…

-Recently I was using the unisex bathroom in an office building when I noticed there was a 25-cent tampon dispenser on the wall.  Fair enough – chicks need that shit.  But right next to it was a 25-cent condom dispenser.  I mean, I guess you can argue that both tampons and condoms can be needed in an emergency.  But that really all depends on your definition of “emergency.”

-I’ve always said that golf combines two of my least favorite things:  getting up early and being outside when it’s hot.  But my dad, man.  My dad fucking loves golf.  He just got back from a weeklong trip to Scotland where he and his buddies played golf non-stop.  He even squeezed in a round the morning he left for the trip.  I just wish there was anything I loved doing as much as he loves golf – that is, anything that doesn’t require a quarter and a trip to the unisex bathroom.

-Mail-in rebates are just absolutely painful.  I think I’d rather pay full price than go crawl around looking for a fucking stamp that’s not outdated and then wait eight weeks for the discount.  I think these companies make their money by advertising the rebate and then counting on some of their customers being lazy bastards.  And as it turns out, those lazy bastards are me.

-My buddy Brian loves food as much as my dad loves golf.  When I’m in New York and need a restaurant recommendation, I call Brian.  He’s a human Zagat guide.  He’ll even make the reservation and critique the menu for you – kind of like an overenthusiastic concierge at the Marriott.  Food is an experience to Brian.  To me it’s just something to shit out while reading Maxim or noticing the condom dispenser on the wall.

-I’ve found that office distribution among my friends is quite random.  Some friends, who I didn’t think were necessarily excelling, already have their own offices.  Others, who I assumed were kicking ass, are still in cubicles.  A handful of my buddies have an office, but share it with another person – usually with desks that face each other.  I’d prefer a cubicle over that.  A shared office is like moving in with someone you found on craigslist – you’re spending hours together with a person you barely even know and who you’re pretty sure is staring at you while you sleep.

-And, finally, with my birthday coming next week, one might think it’d be time to reflect on how much I’ve grown in the past twelve months. And one might be wrong.  Here’s a quick recap of my twenty-eighth year on this earth: got drunk in South Beach and broke my BlackBerry by vomiting on it, went to Triplet #3’s bachelor party in Montreal and had to pay to replace most of the hotel room furniture destroyed during the weekend, booted in parking lot during Triplet #3’s wedding (twice), got thrown out of bar in the West Village for calling bartender a douchebag, and last but not least, got shithammered at a party in Malibu, spotted Justin Timberlake, and proceeded to walk directly into a plate glass door that I thought was open.  So “matured” probably isn’t the word you’d use to describe me in the past year.  But you know what?  I may have played hard, but I worked hard as well.  And, 80% of the way through my twenties, that may be one of the few things I’ve figured out how to balance.  With that said, I’m really looking forward to the next 731 days until my thirtieth birthday.  But as far as days 732, 733, and 734 go, don’t try reaching me.  I have a massive hangover scheduled.  Fuck me!