37. Starting tomorrow, I’ll be 37. And I don’t like it, not one bit. 37 is way too late thirties, way too old to even pretend I’m in my early 30’s or mid 30’s. Most 37 year olds are suburban bound with kids galore, SUV’s, and financial planners. I have none of those things. It’s especially disconcerting because I consider most of my 30’s to be a total and complete waste, a total wash. I wish I could knock about five to six years off my age, just say that that last five or so years didn’t really happen. Hell, most of the people I hang out with in a somewhat regular basis are between 28-32, it’s not like I’m much different from your standard, typical early thirty something.

The funny thing is that sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly ennui-istic, I get that feeling that nothing’s really changed over the past year. Which is kind of funny because, if you remember, at this point last year I was unemployed, broke, totally freaked out, and not particularly doing well at all. None whatsoever. A year later, three life changing type things have happened- I got a job, I got a writing gig, and I bought TiVo (which is the more important of those three things I’ll let you guess. On top of that, I went to Chile, got a foul ball at a baseball game (still one of the coolest things that’s ever happened to me), and saw a Star Wars prequel that didn’t suck. In other words, I have no reason to be full of any sort of ennui. In fact, it should be the opposite. I love my job, make way more money than I’ve ever made before or thought I could ever possibly make, and can actually consider myself a writer. In other words, the thing I need to worry about isn’t that nothing has really changed but is this- I think I’ve peaked.