When I was a kid, 30 was old. It was the age of a parent, or possibly even a grandparent. No one cool was 30. They probably didn’t even know who Jem WAS.
Now that I myself have reached that age, I’m pleased to report that a) I still think 30 is old and b) I couldn’t be happier about it.
Old people have all the fun. They can say whatever they want, no matter how inappropriate. And you have to listen out of respect. (Though if either of those two things no longer applies, please let me know. The holidays are right around the corner.) Plus old people get to eat dinner early and no one thinks it’s weird when they spend the evening reading a book or watching PBS and fall asleep at 8:30. That is basically my dream life, you guys.
The mid-life crisis hasn’t kicked in yet, but I’m jetting off to Las Vegas today so maybe it’s a time zone issue. (In case you’re curious, my trip plans include a David Copperfield magic show, trips to the Hoover Dam and Grand Canyon, a chocolate factory tour, and all the shrimp I can eat. This is literally the trip a ten-year-old me would have planned.)
I had hoped to do my ten thousandth tweet today, but as of press time (Monday morning) I was only in the 9,900s.
[Movie idea: IN A WORLD where each person is allowed just ten thousand tweets, one man overthrows the system. Like “In Time,” but watched by more people than just me.]
I am just going to eat a lot of shrimp instead. Seacrest out.