In less than one week, I will turn 30 years old.
Granted, given my philosphical dispositions, my life first began prior to being extricated via Caesarian section from my mother's womb, so I'm actually about 9 (though closer to 10) thirty years old. However, birthday is not conception day, so I'm about to turn 30.
And it doesn't bother me a bit.
Why should it? I am married to a wonderful woman, have two exceptional children--yes, I know that everyone thinks that their children are exceptional, but mine are moreso than yours, so live with it--, a job that pays me to do what I love doing, a house, a dog, cable internet service, and several powerful firearms. What more could I want in life other than a motorcycle, an Xbox 360, a PS3 (when it comes out), and for Catherine Zeta-Jones to lift that pesky restraining order on me?
I have outlived my father by three years. I haven't done anything exceptional, but I'm not finished yet. Time is relative. Take Einstein's example, and I paraphrase (and probably badly): "One minute on a hot stove and one minute beside the girl that you love: That's relativity."
I don't feel older. I feel out of shape, but that has nothing to do with my age (rather it suggests something about my eating habits and non-existing exercise regimen). I don't know why people freak out about age. It's stupid to do so, and I'm not stupid, so I don't, and I'm going to keep adding independent clauses with correlative conjunctions, and there's nothing that you can do to stop me, but I might tire soon, so you can read on and hope for the best, for I'm only a man (though a great one), and I can only be amused by something this inane for so long, and I think that I've reached that point.
See, I tire of it.
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