Today marks the pith of the author's Twenties. It is the navel of the beer gut engorged by life's annuities of heart ache and alcohol; a singular point from which all of life's leadings and misleadings, trials, tribulations, triumphs, and happenstance can be viewed with the clairvoyant credentials of an individual having attained roughly 25 years of breathing and loving. It is also where the author seems to collect most of his bodily lint.
There are many things to be said about one's Twenties. Most of those things really aren't worth saying or typing. They are, however, evident all around us: in pop-culture, on the roadways, on this, our Internet. Folks in their Twenties could rule the world. Their spirit, not yet torn asunder by the rigors of age, is propelled into and onto the world by peaking hormones and enough education to make them lethal. Having broken the bonds of youth's ignorance and naivete, they are poised to act on their hopes and dreams and force them on the rest of the Earth...Nay, the UNIVERSE.
The Tragedy of the Mid-Twenties™ is an egocentric crisis unlike any other. Those caught in the middle are besieged on all sides by constant reminders of their idiotic past and pathetic future.
Your twenty-two year old friend who went drink to drink with you last night experience none of the ill-effects of the binge. And boasts of their immunity to hangovers. Ignoramus. You know not of the wicked spells nature and time play on the body. You will learn.
The work associate's 29th birthday, still three weeks away, that he's bemoaned since the 28th celebration of this miserable cretin's existence on our planet. Twenty-nine, you know, is only a year away from thirty. Life stops at thirty. You get ugly and people will tell you. Everyday. "Thirty is the Eye of Sauron, looming over my impending doom," he seemed to say.
A special thanks to Travis, my social media muse, for the topical inspiration. You can find his collection of bloggy things here