Friday, August 13, 2010

It was my 28th birthday yesterday. I have to say, the sheer amount of email I got was overwhelming and humbling. I think I got back to everyone, if not, my most sincere apologies. You either got stuck in my spam filter, or I hate you. Probably the spam filter. Unless I actually hate you, in which case, you suck.

28 is not a great birthday. My sister just had a baby, one of my best friends in the world is getting married, and suddenly, I feel old. At this age, I’ve passed the point of being close to 25 and now linger dangerously close to 30, and suddenly I find myself wondering about all sorts of shit I never cared about before.

For example, I spent what was close to 3 hours last night worrying about whether or not my stock portfolio was performing as well as I had expected and whether or not I’d have enough money to retire when I turn old enough for that sort of thing. That immediately progressed into Holy-Shit-That-
IS-A-Gray-Hair, which turned into a complete panic attack because my apartment is a mess.

Which is not unusual. It’s messy even by my standards, but it’s been a ridiculously busy month or two so I haven’t felt really compelled to do a Martha Stewart. This time, because I am now old, I decided that I am single because my apartment is a mess and no one will ever marry me because I have clutter on my kitchen table.

I will let you think about that for a second.

No one will ever marry me because I have clutter on my kitchen table.

It’s not “No one will ever marry me because I’m impossible to please”, “No one will ever marry me because I have impossibly high standards”, or even a well-deserved “No one will ever marry me because I’m the type of insane that thinks no one will ever marry me because I have clutter on my kitchen table”. It’s “No one will ever marry me because I have clutter on my kitchen table”. As if somehow the entire dating world knows that my kitchen table is covered in old bills, receipts, shopping bags and random purses and somehow that got me onto some crazy blacklist.

The logical side of me tries to take over. Because really, the people I’d want to marry don’t give a flying shit about how cluttered my kitchen table is. And in reality? The people who I’d want to marry only give a flying shit about how cluttered my kitchen table is if it somehow impedes my ability to remove my top.

It’s like at midnight on August 12, I completely lost my mind. Sex in the City and all those other shitty dating shows lied. Getting older while being single in a huge metropolitan area not only sucks like Lindsay Lohan for an 8 ball, it also makes you crazier than shit.

Cause nothing says sexy like being old and crazy.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some kids to chase off of my lawn.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Nice, get those whipper-snappers off your fuckin' lawn!