Oh The Douchebaggery

Some friends accused me last week of referencing my age too much. Or, rather, that I often complain about getting old.

Let me defend myself a little here.
I know I am ,by no means, old.

When I talk about getting older, it's usually in relation to the fact that most of my friends are younger than me.

All of my friends are extremely bright. Stupid people bore the hell out of me (take note, Anne Coulter).

And I know that wisdom is not directionally proportionate to the length of one's tooth.

It does seem ,however, that while the majority of my contemporaries, as well as my younger friends, had their shit figured out by twenty-five, I am still floundering.

I have been applying to jobs that pay the equivalent of what I was getting paid when I was fourteen and working at McDonalds (and yes, I know, evil empire....but before you scoff, I was underage, had an in, and a burning desire to afford a car by the time I was legal. I really wanted out of the styx).

Point is, I just feel too old for the same old dead-end job.

Of course, I majored in Creative Writing, so I might just be one of those people who floats through a banal existence only to get published and lauded posthumously.

I mean, I do actually write (I mean besides this little baby girl).

But I can't seem to figure out what to do about it.
It is sooo hard to get published.
Especially if you are unmotivated.
Ahem, not that that's me. Motivation and laziness are totally different animals.

Aside from all my whining about my lame path at the moment, I am also plagued by my body's reaction to aging.

Nobody can guess my age and I get carded all the time (though I think a lot of bartenders do that to up their tips...especially considering that there are ones who do this repeatedly, probably as a reaction to my emphatic, "Oh yes! You may".

I think my main problem is that I have no desire to become a workaday adult...A clock-puncher.
And because my daily life is so monotonous, I spend every free moment searching out fun.
Perhaps more often than I did when I was half my age.

You may ask (though probably not) where this coming from?

Well, I have been laid out in bed for three days straight, unable to move.
It blows. My body has betrayed me for my youthful escapades.

I have had a bad back since I was in high school.
I ran a lot. Up and down mountains.
That will fuck up your alignment as much as Boss Hog's after chasing the General Lee over a ravine.

So because it has been Holiday season, friends have come into town...and those who are already here had time off.
And because I have been a veritable hermit since I quit my job, I decide to cram three months worth of shenanigans into two weeks.

My back went out on Thanksgiving.

It does it a few times of year and usually with no apparent trigger.

This time, I blamed it on the mattress I slept on.
Usually, I take it easy and recover after a few days.

But because I am a fool for fun, I figure why not just worry about it later?

I am so grown up.

Needless to say, I went out dancing (and in pain) every single night after I killed my back.
Up until three days ago.
It was then that I tried to get out of bed and ended up screaming so loud I worried the neighbors would call in a domestic violence report.

I just cannot reconcile my body's limitations with my need to eat life for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I am totally going to be the old lady on the dance floor when I am seventy.
Only I will be wearing my bling in the form of one of those medical alert necklaces.
You know...the ones you push when you have fallen and can't get up?