That means I basically wake up every morning wondering if today is the day I start crapping my pants, buying tapioca pudding in bulk, and mixing myself an Ensure and vodka as a way to wind down in the evening. Evening being 2 or 3 in the afternoon.
Overreaction aside, one needs to look no further for proof of my rapid decline than the differences in birthday celebrations between 29 and 30 (which someone actually tried to tell me was the "new 20." I can see how some would like to believe that 50 is the new 40, or that 40 is even the new 30...but please. I now actually wear underwear, eat vegetables and can remember where I took off my pants the night before. As far as you know. So don't tell me that I "might as well be 20!").
Last year? I celebrated another meaningless year on the calendar by jumping out of a functioning airplane.
This year, to commemorate "the new 20," I got called a "great big American pussy" while in Amsterdam by my Mom's cousin - a 54 year old married doctor with two kids who drank my ass under the table - because he was pissed I didn't want to continue partying. (It was 4am.)
New 20 my old ass.
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