Christ, I turned 37 today. Thirty-fucking-seven. XXXVII.
There’s no denying it. I’m middle-aged. This is the time in my life when I should be getting hair implants, buying an expensive, red convertible, and leaving my wife for a model in her early 20s. Unfortunately, I’m not married, I don’t know any models, I’m too broke for a new car, and I still have all of my hair.
Actually, as far as mid-life crises go, I guess I handled mine with a bit of class. All I did was quit my job of 8 years to pursue a career as a writer. And no matter how things go, I will always remain convinced that I made the right choice.
Nothing feels better than to walk into your daily meeting on a project so horribly mismanaged that it’s giving everybody involved ulcers, and announce that, as of Friday, you will no longer be with the company. And then you get to spend the rest of the meeting giggling every time somebody else brings up yet another show-stopping issue. Ah, good times.
But I digress…
My party this year was a bit subdued, especially compared to the drunken brawls of the previous two years. A few close friends, and my immediate family. A real grown up party.