And to think that I felt old at 24! Actually, I think I started feeling old on my 22nd birthday. Wanna’ hear the story? Well too bad – I’m going to tell it anyway. Get ready for an edge-of-your-seat thriller. Especially if you’re wearing silk pants and sitting on a greased, down-sloping chair.
At 22, I came to a harsh realization. Bologna is not meat. Or no, that was age 2. The daunting 22 was the first time I turned a year older and didn’t really have anything to look forward to, other than motorized wheelchairs and senior citizen discounts. It was the first time I partially understood why old folk (that’s what they call us after 22) don’t like birthdays that much. It was only a partial understanding because of two things: presents and birthday cake (my mom’s red velvet cake deserves some heavy respect, followed by frenzied consumption). Excepting those two perks, however, this birthday thing means the coming of knees that predict the weather, teeth that watch me from the nightstand, and a digestive system that demands more daily fiber than International Paper.
But the thing that really preserved my sanity on my 22nd was the back-of-my-mind knowledge that 25 was actually the last time there would be any birthday-related benefits. So here it is – I can finally rent cars and get the last age-related discount on my car insurance.
Is is just me or is that a pretty anti-climactic ending? Renting cars? Please. The only time I wanted to rent a car was pre-18 (when I thought it would be fun to purchase the insurance and then go 4-wheeling) and on my 18th (when I ranted about the injustice of being a legal adult and unable to rent a car). They should revamp the system to make the perks go out with a bang. You know, illegal skydiving until you’re 25, or no free Daiquiri Ice until you turn 25. Stuff like that.
Oh well. AARP, you’ve got my number.
Anyway, I’d better get off the computer – I think I feel a storm-a-comin’.