By Jack Wiles
I remember when I was your age. Oh yes, back in the times when sliced bread was a penny a pack and cheeseburgers grew on trees. These were times when President Hoover himself handed me mush on the side of the street just so my stomach didn’t implode. You think I’m joking, youngsters, but in reality, I feel old.
Last weekend I turned 22. Twenty-two is a birthday that people celebrate because it’s a birthday, but in reality it is only the passing of a second in time. You see, many other birthdays have significance. For example, when you turn five it just so happens to be the year that you can count the same amount of years that you have fingers on your hand. Don’t lie, kids always take a picture when they are five with one hand held high, displaying their pudgy little cake filled fingers with pride. Then there is the
10th birthday, when you can do this with both hands. This one is particularly epic. At 13 you are a teenager, at 16 it is particularly “sweet,” and at 18 you can buy cigarettes and porn, have intercourse with people older than you and drink in certain areas of Canada. This is the second-most epic birthday. Also, every birthday before 21 is cool because it is one year closer to 21, which is by far the best birthday. (If you don’t know why you’ve never read my column, or been in public.)
But 22? Bullshit. From here on out, every birthday you experience your bones get weaker and your life more boring. Now, you are getting closer to working a day job. You are approaching marriage, which means as a male I will never make an independent decision about life again. As a female, it means that you may have to have a … oh no, I don’t even want to go in that direction. (Poor females, I really wish for their sake that they could lay eggs like birds.) Next thing you know, you’re joining the AARP and getting discounts on coffee at 6 a.m. at McDonald’s. Sounds like I’ve got a lot to look forward to.
Well, luckily for you readers, this article is coming to an end. This isn’t because I’ve reached a word limit, or even finished with my depressing rant on getting old. No, I have to stop writing because I need to take my medicine, read the paper, and make a bowel movement. I guess that’s what happens when you get old.