A Life Wasted?

I have made many a party faux-pas in my life. I’ve spilled drinks. I’ve started fights. I’ve made crass comments. But, I don’t party anymore. I’m sober three years this month. And, somehow, I feel like this qualifies me as someone who doesn’t do or say ridiculous things.

Pshaw!

I turned 40 last weekend. 40! It doesn’t really bother me. I’ve been told that 40 is the new 30. Shit, I’ve been told it’s the new 21! I’ve been told that the 40s rock the casbah. That you start to really know what you want and what you don’t want and you don’t giving a flying frog what people think of you.

Sounds good to me!

But, there is still this nagging closer-to-death thing. And, when I start to think about getting closer to death, I start thinking about all of the things that I wanted to do in my life when I actually was 21 and it was just opening up.

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Under Pressure

After graduating from college, I worked two jobs—at a music store during the day and at a restaurant during the evening. I was an English Major and had no career plans whatsoever. I was saving cash in a tin with a picture of an old Rolls Royce and Rte. 66 on the lid, trying to fund a solo trek to California. Of course, the money never stayed long in the tin as I also had to fund my bad habits. So, there I was. No plans. No money. No sense of responsibility. I didn’t really stand a chance, but at least I was having fun.

I wish I could say that I was a starving artist, but my party plans always took precedence over my art. So, I worked and worked and put a little cash in the tin and pulled a little cash out of the tin and stayed up all night and then did it all over again. I remember believing that I was handling the long hours and little sleep like a real champ. I was pushing CDs at the mall, delivering steaming hot plates of lasagna at the restaurant, and dancing and laughing and making everyone around me generally happy. Or, so I thought.

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