Hey gang! Today is my 34th birthday, a good occasion to take stock of things in a clinical, dispassionate manner. As I usually do on this blog, I will now set aside all hyperbole to communicate as accurately and reasonably as possible.
Thus far, my summer has been one of inane pleasantries and falseness. My nights have been filled with desperate longing while my days have been weighed down with hazy tedium. My children arise each morning at the unmerciful hour of 5:30 and I stay up at night reading a book that I despise until my mind can no longer sustain even this meager consciousness.
As unwelcome as a bloated, maggot-infested rabbit carcass tossed on a doorstep, my birthday has arrived. Now 34, I’ve entered the no man’s land of the mid-30s, an age marked by weight gain and an increased enthusiasm for classic rock radio. To celebrate this impending surrender to banality, my wife and I went out to a restaurant, ate some bread pudding for dessert, and submitted ourselves to the void.
And so another year has been notched off on the bloodied leather belt of life. I find myself burdened with unrelenting responsibilities and no closer to achieving my childhood dream of becoming Kirby Puckett’s best friend. Like the debris at the bottom of a box of shredded wheat, my once-fertile ambitions have been crushed into sugary dust. Alone in my desperation, my hopes unfulfilled, I am left searching for comfort in my loving family and generous faith community and enriching career, like a three-legged rottweiler with a post-graduate degree.
Well, now that I’ve hit rock bottom, I guess there’s nothing left to do but to go on a walk with my wife and hold her hand and talk about our life together, like some kind of stupid idiot.