October 23, 2002
Today's my 26th birthday. I'm kind of indifferent about it, really. There're no presents like when I was a kid, going out for a beer (which I'll probably do later) is no longer a novelty; there's nothing really special here when you get right down to it.
I remember 10 being a big deal because I'd made double-digits; 16 was of course important because I could drive; 18 meant I was a legal adult and could, if I wanted to, buy smokes; for 21 I went out and got hammered legally with my college friends. Then it went downhill: 22 was basically, "well, I've been drinking for a year," and the only things about 25 were the decrease in car insurance (welcome to the new demographic!) and being a quarter-century old. What the hell is there for 26? The fifth anniversary of my first Oakland crawl? A year or cheaper insurance? Feeling like a dirty old man every time I drive past the Pitt or CMU campuses and ogle some 18-year-olds?
Enh. I s'pose that all I've got left are round numbers from here on out (30 in 2006). And getting "lapped" by pledge classes also in the fall of 2006 (Alpha-Rho will pledge then; I was Rho). And that horrible day in 2012 when I'll be twice as old as the freshman women I already feel guilty about looking at.
No wonder old people try to ignore their birthdays.
Update: Heh. Thanks to Headline News, I now know that I have the same birthday as Weird Al Yankovic.
