Next Stop, Forty

I am so old.

Twenty-five years and one month. Crazy old, right?

When I hit twenty-five, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day I was born, I wasn't able to comprehend the enormity of that time span. "Congratulations!" my relations would say, "Now you're a quarter of a century old!" I got a birthday card with a picture of a train on it that said "Next stop, Forty!"

I laughed, uneasily, being polite, but knew I didn't really understand what was going on. I decided to give myself more time.

So here we are, four weeks later, I'm even older than I was (though I suppose we all are...unless one of you out there has access to some pill, or fountain, or some magical youth-rendering treatment (wherein, I can only imagine, you kidnap youths and slowly heat them over a low flame to remove their youthiness (like truthiness) as you would fat from bacon)) and desperation is setting in.

What have I really accomplished in all this time? (Oh my God, all...this...time...It's been so long!)

Sure, I've survived to see twenty-five, but that's not such a big deal anymore, it may even surprise you to learn that most people born in Western indulstrialized countries to middle-income families with access to the world's greatest hospitals are expected to make it to twenty-five.

And sure, I've passed the crucible that is our education system (heated unequally by elementary, secondary, and collegiary flames), so there's that, I guess.

I was able to obtain employment, doing a job only about seventeen million other people across the country do, in a manner, and with an outlook that is almost exactly the same (haphazard, and apathetic, respectively).

I used the money I earned to purchase symbols of my financial status, demonstrations of my worth. I've got a car of my own (only thirty more payments!) I've got the Xbox 360, I've got um...shoes.

But look at the total package! What have I realy accomplished?! What have I done that people will remember me for? (Except that game of assassins I orchestrated in college. Man, that was totally awesome. Oh no, I think I'm starting to live in the past! My finest hour is behind me! WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!)

World takeover bid? That's a young man's game. Climbing Mt. Everst? Not with this arthritis. What's left but to run for public office? I'm almost old enough to run for the presidency! And then what's left? Retire to Harlem, like the great presidents before me, and then take my place next to them in the eternal resting place of our past leaders in Grant's Tomb.

Anyway, twenty-five's pretty damn old. I'll probably be using a walker the next time you see me, if I can even get out of bed for company. That's it. It's over man, game over. This is the end. They were right, all downhill from here. Last trip around the sun. The long goodnight. The last mimzy. Serpico. Fin.

25. Next stop, forty.

-t