The Colonel's Twenty-Tenth Birthday

Nobody enjoys getting old. No longer being able to identify myself as a twenty-something has been grating on my conscious for the last two years or so, and now that this lackluster milestone is being breached, I'm besides myself and prostrate with grief.

I really, really liked being 'in my 20s.' That was cool with me. Being '30'? Nope.

Nothing about being 'in my 30s' sounds appealing. Birthdays stopped getting awesome when I turned 25 (when my insurance rates went down), and ever since that year the passing birthdays have simply been a steady, solemn march towards the big 3-0.

There's no silver-lining to turning 30, either. Shut up if you think there is, 'cause there's not. Sure, there's a strong probability I will grow more gray hairs, but I'm a blond, and therefore don't have the benefit of obtaining that distinguished salt/pepper thing. I'll end up looking like my old golden retriever Dreyfus right before he died.

(Rest in peace, Dreyfus)

So how does yours truly get down upon marking this depressing occasion? I'm not doing a Goddamn thing. No cake, no parties, no nothing. Kris has reluctantly agreed to watch the kids for a day so I can sulk about the house and pass the day as painlessly as humanly possible. I'm arming myself with Sailor Jerry's, watching hours upon hours of old TV shows from the 1980s, and playing video games until my eyeballs bleed.

Almost 40,

- Old Man McHough