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With my 27th birthday quickly approaching, I think it’s time to admit something to myself. I’m getting old. Washed. Can’t hang like I used to. This is not a new revelation, but rather knowledge built from many individual moments in my life. Now, I know I’m not actually old in the grand scheme of things, but the transition from my mid-20s to my late-20s is a particularly tough pill to swallow. In my mind, I’m still 19, but in reality, there are many moments that prove me wrong. Here are some examples.
When I Had Hip Surgery
What’s the number one medical fear for old people? What do you worry about happening to your grandparents once they pass the age of seventy? That’s right. Them falling and breaking their hip. Granted, I didn’t actually break my hip, but I did tear a large chunk of the joint in half and had to have surgery. I spent a couple months on crutches, and the better portion of a year in physical therapy hobbling around like a little old lady in a nursing home. Thankfully, a year later, I’m nearly back to my former level of mobility, but that was the first moment when I realized that my physical ability is on the decline. I’m washed.
When I Didn’t Check Out College Girls
A few months ago, I was walking past the DePaul-area bars and just marveling at the shitshow. There were what looked like children sleeping on the curb, crying on each other’s shoulders, and drunkenly attempting to wrestle each other, all clogging up the sidewalk and hindering me from getting home and eating the microwave pizza I had waiting for me at home. The worst part wasn’t that what used to look like a fun night just a few years ago now lacked all appeal. It wasn’t that I realized how sloppy I must have looked in college. No, it was that the sidewalk was filled with attractive college-aged chicks wearing revealing outfits, and my only thought was, “Do they have a jacket or something? They look so cold.”
That’s when I knew that I’m closer to being a father figure than a frat boy. Closer to being called “dad” than “daddy.” The time has arrived. I’m washed.
Every Time I Wake Up At 8 A.M. On The Weekend
When I was younger, I remember my parents hating when I slept in. “You’re wasting half the day,” they’d grumble as I rolled out of bed at noon. And I would laugh them off, like the old fogeys they were, clearly jealous of my youth and ability to wake up late. My dad would complain about not being able to sleep in past 6 a.m., and I would give him advice like, “just go back to sleep,” unable to comprehend what decades of waking up early will do to a person’s sleep cycle.
Now as an adult man, I get it. I’m not as bad as my parents, and I can still sleep in til 10 a.m. on occasion, but for the most part, I’m up before nine, regardless of how tired I am or how late I went to bed. Did I go to bed at 11 p.m., mid-way through a critically-acclaimed HBO docudrama on WWII? I’m waking up at 8 a.m. Did I close down a bar and didn’t get to bed until 4 a.m.? Doesn’t matter, I’m up, feeling like hot garbage, at 8 a.m. I can’t control it, but I know why. It’s because I’m washed.
When I Got Turned On By My Own FICO Credit Score
I got an email this month from Bank of America urging me to check my score, and just like I do every month, I dropped everything to click on it. I was like a kid on Christmas, and this three-digit number was my big present. And it did not disappoint. 772. That’s right bitches. Seven-hundred-and-seventy-two. That ain’t no child’s play. That’s a grown man’s credit score. I could buy a fucking house right now (if I had more than two grand in my savings account).
I’m going to be honest with you guys. That headline was not hyperbole. The second I read that number, my slacks started getting a little tight. My blood pressure spiked. My heart started racing. I grabbed my girlfriend, threw her on the bed where my phone laid, and ravaged her on top of my Bank of America app. Hot. But washed.
When I Had Just One Beer For The First Time In My Life
July fourth, 2018. Mark the day in your calendars. The first time in my life where I had just one beer, and on this great nation’s birthday, no less. It still makes me sick to think about it. Granted, I had just come back from a trip home where 20 of my college friends and I rented a massive cabin in the middle of the Sierra Nevadas and did nothing but pound Coors Light and Jack Daniels for 48 straight hours. Which was immediately following a trip back to my girlfriend’s college town, where I was introduced to dollar pitchers for the first time in my life. I want to be clear, however, that those aren’t excuses. No, there is no excuse for me disrespecting America by having just one beer on Independence Day. There is only one reason. I’m washed.
While many would be upset at this revelation, I’m anything but. I’m excited. I can’t wait to be an old man who hates crowds, loud music, and all kinds of fun. I don’t fear my 27th birthday. I look forward to it. And I’m going to celebrate like only a washed guy can – by blacking out aggressively and being hungover for three business days. .