Are You Hip To My Jive?

Buenos ding-dong-diddly-dias, my fine feathered friends. How is it going with you? I mean, how is it going really? I hope everything is puppy dogs, peanut butter, and walks on the beach for everyone. Well, maybe not everyone. Herr Bush could have a non-puppy dog day, and I'd be quite happy. But that's politics. We'll leave them out of our little love-in here. Cool? Cool. Coolio even.

So now that we have the social niceties out of the way, we can get down to the business at hand. Namely, talking about me.

Hey, it's an online diary/blog. What did you expect, Dr. Phil?

So it's agreed. We'll talk about me then. I appreciate that, I really do.

To start with, let me tell you about being thirty. It's a bizarre combination of 'not as bad as I expected', and 'wow, this sucks'. Seriously. Leading up to my thirtieth birthday, I was trying to hide the fact that I was terrified. How could I be thirty? I still feel like a naive thirteen year old most of the time. It's like someone lied to me sometime in the past about how old I really am. Every year they'd tack an extra number onto my age, and talk me into believing it. I think I'm really only 21. At the most. I still think of people older than me as 'adults'. I do not include myself in this category most of the time.

Maybe it's a generation thing. Most of my family is still around, and I am one of the older cousins, so the generations are still intact from when I was a child. It's going to take some babies in the family to move me up in seniority. It'll be nice to hold some sway over someone for a change. We could add an extra table to family gatherings. The 'adult' table, the 'in denial about being an adult' table(that's where I'd sit, most likely alone), and the 'kids' table. That would be sweet...

Ahh, dreams.

The worst part about being thirty, is that my body seems to be rapidly outpacing my mind. I don't mean my face, I'm lucky that way, I still look 22, but the rest of my body. I've noticed that I have some hairs on my head. Well, I have lots actually, always have, but these hairs are very...what's the right way to phrase this...unexpected, unwelcome, and a lot of other negative words. You see, they're grey. There are only a few, but they're there dammit. And I'm not happy about it. And I HURT more than I used to. My knees make odd crunchy sounds. This just isn't right. I'm just a kid, you know? Next thing I know, I'll be shopping for Preparation H, and complaining about the music these days...

Damn teenagers.

Oh, and I am coming to the realization that I am slowly falling out of the slang loop. I'm going to have to fake muteness around kids soon, so I don't end up sounding like your dorky Uncle Pete. "You know that band was just the bee's knees. They are the absolute most. Some real cool cats." God save us from the bee's knees.

Apparently 'sick', and 'dry' are pretty popular these days. I know what 'sick' means, and not just the traditional way, but what the fuck is 'dry'? I don't even know, I didn't know it was a slang word until a friend who is a grade eight teacher told me. That's how hip I am to their jive, folks. I had to take slang lessons from a grade eight teacher.

Not good. Not good at all.

So yeah, you could say I am sort of fighting this whole 'aging' issue. I mean c'mon, I'm invincible, remember? Remember?

Ok, well it's midnight, and I have to work tomorrow morning, so I should get going on the whole 'bed' thing.

Happy trails, to me....

I'm off to go slather myself with A535, try and recover from hockey.

Pray for my old bones...