You Don't Act a Day Over 13

Yesterday marked the 38th year I have strode this planet.

I don’t feel 38. I certainly don’t act it. Wifezilla would be the first to tell you that my maturity level often dips down to that of a snot-nosed teenager. Even as a Dad(dy) I’m more Freddy Kruegar than Ward Cleaver.

Case in point, I got this cool Black & Decker wrench for my birthday. It automatically adjusts to fit the size of the nut you’re trying to wrench. Rather than test it out on something that needed to be tightened, I pretended to get my finger caught in it. I hollered out in mock pain in front of all three of my girls. Wifezilla rolled her eyes, but Hallie and Claire always think I’m serious. After I released my finger, I asked Claire to put her finger inside the wrench, and when she refused, I proceeded to chase her around the house, Claire screaming bloody murder the whole way.

You can probably begin to understand why Claire is also afraid of the vacuum cleaner.

Just this past weekend I watched Jackass #2 and laughed through the whole thing (and nearly puked during the horse skit. I seriously had to run out of the room to avoid hurling.) When I tried to share the movie’s highlights with Wifezilla, she got mad and demanded I stop talking to her. I never did get to tell her about the bearded Arab skit.

So even though I’m 38, I’m still behaving like I always have. I’m not sure how to “act” my age, whatever that means. Perhaps I’m immersed in delusional self-denial. Yesterday, my co-workers must have smelled a premature mid-life crisis. They would wish me a happy birthday followed by a wink and a “You’re turning 21, right?” As if I need to be reminded I’m as far from 21 as Pluto is from Earth.

WoW raiding is reminder enough. I’m the oldest member of my raiding guild. By far. I think the next oldest guildee is 33. The rest are made up of punk twenty-year olds who can swig their Red Bull and raid till the wee hours of the morning without breaking a sweat. Meanwhile, I’ve too often awakened to my face plastered on the keyboard, multiple keystroke impressions firmly imbedded in my (increasingly wrinkling) skin, and Emanee running endlessly into a wall. Don’t get me wrong, I keep up with the young whipper-snappers most of the time. It’s just there are days when it’s a real slog.

But the truth is, I wouldn’t trade 38 for 28 or 18 or 8. I’ve got a swell wife(zilla), cute kids, financial independence, and plenty of discretionary time to engage in my favorite hobby, gaming. Being young has its perks to be sure. I miss being able to eat whatever I want in whatever quantity I desire at any time of the day. Those days are long gone. I used to mow through a bag of sun-flower seeds like Wifezilla at an all-you-can-eat pasta buffet. But then I suddenly developed high-blood pressure (I swear, one day I didn’t have it, the next I did), so no more spats. And chugging Mountain Dew? I had to switch to the diet version. I’ve never ingested horse urine, but I suspect Diet Mountain Dew is a packaged version of it.

I swore I wouldn’t indulge in a cliché, but I guess I’m living one right now: you’re only as old as you feel. Or act, in my case. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to email Wifezilla about a certain Jackass skit that involved a block of ice, a water bottle, and a sack. She said not to talk to her. She didn’t mention anything about emails.