Forgive my ego, but I'm 35, and I don't mind saying I'm looking good

I turn 35 today. Mid-life ... or so I hope or hope not as the case may be.

I have to say, with the exception of some recent personal tragedies in my family's life and a bad diagnosis for my wife at the doctor today, I don't have too much to complain about.

I don't feel 35. I've been lazy lucky enough to have avoided heavy labor for most of my life, I've drank in extreme moderation for most of my life, I can count on two hands (well, two-and-a-half) how many times I've used drugs, other than a Dr Pepper and Cheddar cheese addiction, I've taken relative care of myself. No scars, no major injuries in the course of my life, no big concerns.

My mind is right. Still feelin' stupid, still feelin' immature, but not so much that I feel the need to buy a red sports car to compensate for anything. I've got perspective, but mixed with equal parts dumbassary.

Still pretty liberal, well, very liberal. Who was it? Winston Churchill? Didn't he say, "If you're not a liberal when you're 25, you have no heart. If you're not a conservative by the time you're 35, you have no brain." Well, fuck you, fat boy.

Though I should probably retract that because I read he really didn't say it. But if he did, it goes up there with bad things great people said or did, like Moses dropping the 11th through 15th Commandments or Gandhi's ill-fated detour into the burgeoning suggestive T-shirt market when he marketed a tube-top that said, "I'll fast for anyone, but I brake for those cakes."

I'm still pretty relevant to society. I'm young enough to "get" rap, yet I'm old enough to distrust any song with a word ending in a Z.

I've achieved some goals. I'm the father of two kids who are as nutty as their dad. I'm a husband. I'm a beat writer. I own a Dodge Neon. I got Leeds up to the Prem and into European competition on FIFA 2006.

I recently became a homeowner, which on a sportswriters' salary alone I thought was impossible, but I haven't fallen into any old-fart NIMBY mindset. Except for those fucking kids in my neighborhood setting off fireworks. Hey shit-for-brains, July 4 is over, if you want to torture neighborhood pets, that's your cross to bear, but do it without waking me up or disturbing my strawberry garden. THEY'RE DELICATE, O-FUCKING-K! Don't make me call 5-0, see, I DO know rap.

But most of all, I looked in the mirror the other day, and though my ego is usually in check, I have to say, I don't look bad for 35.

To illustrate, I'm uglier than this ... (the man pictured is also 35)



But better looking than this ... (will be 35 later this year)



See what I mean? Not bad, huh?

This requires a bit of background. You see, I've always looked way too young for my age. I was 4-foot-11 as a high school freshman. And when you're collegiate body is built not for the porn you're old enough to do, but for a guest shot on You Can't Do That On Television that might get you arrested at that age, the primose path to sexual conquest is rocky indeed. So I always looked forward to my 30s, when I'd look 20-ish.

At 30, I was getting there, but I still looked a tad too much like I could guest star as someone's troubled best friend who likes to hit the sauce a little bit too much during senior lunch hour on 7th Heaven.

But now? I look mature, but not old. I've got a tinge of gray, but not like that freak from American Idol. I've always had a torso that rivals an African hunger ad, but I've filled out a tad. I could lose some pounds, but nothing drastic, maybe 15 or so. Moreover, I now could play the young, jerkoff accountant whose a little too cocky for his own good on Lost instead of starring as an evil meth dealer bent on getting in some sophomore's pants on DeGrassi.

Everything, you know, still works. And I'm not afraid to say that my ass is still, what's the best way to describe it, supple? Hey, I can only go on what I'm told, but I see or feel no evidence to the contrary.

I'm kinda proud. A lot of my friends have aged in dog years, I can't be 100 percent on this, but I think my ass is aging in Galapagos Island tortoise years.

With that knowledge and boost of confidence in my head, I forge ahead with my life, no doubt dooming myself to the ironic death posts like this bring upon the authors. And knowing full well, I only wrote this so I could compare my ass to Galapagos Island tortoises.

 

Outing alert -- Bubs is Eye-an Ziering.

 

I beg the moderators: Someone, please, save this to ensure it lives on forever.

Yet more fine work, Bubs.  

 

Happy birthday. I only wish I could give you as good a gift as the one you gave us all with your Wal-Mart at midnight thread.

 

Thanks for the reminder. I have to go to Wal-mart (1982) to get his (Willie McGee) present.

 

Happy Birthday Big Boy ...

 

Wille McGee may more closely resemble the bikini guy.

 

That bikini picture should be NSFW! :-X

Happy birthday, Bubbler!

 

I'm gonna punch that fucker (McGee) in the face. Eat something you bean-pole freak!

Speaking of 35, you do stupid shit when you get a new house. For example, I'm in my basement, and I'm tossing a Super-ball off my concrete foundation, playing it on two hops (because the second hop is the "tricky" one with a Super-ball), so I can work on my reflexes and lateral movement.

Because you know, the Brewers might call, and I don't want to miss the fast track to replace Ed Romero as the club's greatest utility infielder.  :

 

You have no brain!

Hey, happy 35th; I'm not too far away. Enjoy the second half.

 

Happy fucking haircut.