Doom and Gloom at the Quarter Century
The rumors are true. I'm turning 25 tomorrow. I expect I'll wake up with gray hairs, a mortgage, and a bad sense of fashion, as well as a general disdain for all those silly young things who party into the wee hours of the morning and love listening to loud music. That's what happens, I hear.
Sadly, I don't think, given tomorrow's august and important event, that I actually have a whole lot of wisdom to impart. Nor am I sure that I actually know much of anything. Which would make me sad, given the amount of money I've spent and spent on my behalf for educatory purposes, except that I've also recently decided to embrace my fundamental ignorance as a member of the mortal species of humans (as opposed to the immortal species? I should go back and check out that nephilim reference in Genesis....)
Last year's birthday was so magnificent I think I'll have trouble topping it, so I don't think I'll even try. Instead, on creaky limbs, I hope to head to a pic-a-nic in the sunshine somewhere with a few folks. Since I'm in California, it would do me well to get on the beach with a tank top in January, if only for a brief second before my core temperature drops and I lose several toes, just to say I did it. Then again, people use that same rationale to justify all sorts of things, from skydiving to heavy drug use, as though checking things off on a giant "Silly Things I Have Done in the Name of Experience" list actually added to a general quality of life. What I'm saying is you won't see me jumping from an airplane any time soon. My mother should sleep easier with that knowledge, but she won't because she's a Worrier and can't help it.
In other news, I've recently discovered the true joy of an MP3 player, which is to give you all sorts of new places to be dancing and singing. Usually in public, where you demonstrate a grating lack of pitch because you can't hear yourself singing. Maybe that's just me, though. This is part of my general goal of being less self-conscious in public. If I were honest, I'd say my real goal would be to do yoga somewhere without feeling like a total freak-show or as though I'm showing off. Maybe I hit that at the half-century mark. I'll keep you posted.
Anyway, I have some serious reading to get done this afternoon, and by serious I mean repellant but necessary; it's plant genetics, which I feel sure I need to know if I'm going to get on my high and mighty horse about agriculture so I won't get embarrassed by scientific folk who think they know everything about the world (which is just silly, since I'm the only one who knows everything important). The most recent chapter of reading was entitled "Protoplast Fusion," which makes my impoverished left-brain weep just to type. I don't even know why I'm bothering. Science doesn't stay with me; my personal theory is that my liberal arts/philosophy right brain staged a coup by putting some non-caloric silicon-based kitchen lubricant (Mr. Chase, I love you) on aforementioned left-brain. Still, once more into the breach. It's like mental weight-lifting right? Push to failure and eventually you'll get more muscly?
Sadly, I don't think, given tomorrow's august and important event, that I actually have a whole lot of wisdom to impart. Nor am I sure that I actually know much of anything. Which would make me sad, given the amount of money I've spent and spent on my behalf for educatory purposes, except that I've also recently decided to embrace my fundamental ignorance as a member of the mortal species of humans (as opposed to the immortal species? I should go back and check out that nephilim reference in Genesis....)
Last year's birthday was so magnificent I think I'll have trouble topping it, so I don't think I'll even try. Instead, on creaky limbs, I hope to head to a pic-a-nic in the sunshine somewhere with a few folks. Since I'm in California, it would do me well to get on the beach with a tank top in January, if only for a brief second before my core temperature drops and I lose several toes, just to say I did it. Then again, people use that same rationale to justify all sorts of things, from skydiving to heavy drug use, as though checking things off on a giant "Silly Things I Have Done in the Name of Experience" list actually added to a general quality of life. What I'm saying is you won't see me jumping from an airplane any time soon. My mother should sleep easier with that knowledge, but she won't because she's a Worrier and can't help it.
In other news, I've recently discovered the true joy of an MP3 player, which is to give you all sorts of new places to be dancing and singing. Usually in public, where you demonstrate a grating lack of pitch because you can't hear yourself singing. Maybe that's just me, though. This is part of my general goal of being less self-conscious in public. If I were honest, I'd say my real goal would be to do yoga somewhere without feeling like a total freak-show or as though I'm showing off. Maybe I hit that at the half-century mark. I'll keep you posted.
Anyway, I have some serious reading to get done this afternoon, and by serious I mean repellant but necessary; it's plant genetics, which I feel sure I need to know if I'm going to get on my high and mighty horse about agriculture so I won't get embarrassed by scientific folk who think they know everything about the world (which is just silly, since I'm the only one who knows everything important). The most recent chapter of reading was entitled "Protoplast Fusion," which makes my impoverished left-brain weep just to type. I don't even know why I'm bothering. Science doesn't stay with me; my personal theory is that my liberal arts/philosophy right brain staged a coup by putting some non-caloric silicon-based kitchen lubricant (Mr. Chase, I love you) on aforementioned left-brain. Still, once more into the breach. It's like mental weight-lifting right? Push to failure and eventually you'll get more muscly?