(Cross-posted from my very writerly pen-name blog.)
The other day I woke up and discovered I had less hair, was a bit fatter than I was the day before, and – holy fuck – I was 30. (Or close enough that it made no difference. I have ignored the inexorable march of my 30th birthday for awhile now.)
Mostly I feel the same as all the previous times in my life when I wasn’t 30, except when I don’t. I feel different mainly when I fantasize about things. You know, daydreaming ‘n shit.
When I was in high school I daydreamed about being a famous rapper, although I had no talent for it. I’d get insta-boners by looking at women in the tamest of K-Mart underwear ads, fantasizing about them, like, showing me around K-Mart, sexily.
I remember when I was 22, taking the bus to community college for creative writing, fantasizing about all the hippie girls I was going to bang from that class. (I failed miserably.)
From ages 23 to 25 I was high on oxycontin and fantasized about little else.
When I was 27 I daydreamed about how I was finally going to make some type of money from my writing because oh god I’ll be 30 in three years and I think I might be wasting my life. By then, sexy K-Mart ads weren’t doing the trick anymore, and hadn’t for some time. I mean, I could use them in a pinch but a man’s gotta raise the bar after a while, doesn’t he?
Now I’m 30 and you know what I daydream about? My feet not stinking like shit. I can’t help it. I work a lot of overtime and, well, I must have some sort of fungal thing that makes my feets disgustingly pungent. This is no joke.
You can literally smell my feet through my shoes at times.
I took to wearing boots to work because my sneakers simply couldn’t conceal the funk, even though the boots make my feet hurt. On the way to work I would happily fantasize about the day when I could wear shoes without the shame.
That was when I found this bad boy on sale at CVS.
Amazing when you think about it, because I had only went inside to get a new lint roller. We don’t even have a cat yet somehow I get hair all over my clothes. Can’t leave the house like that.
Anyway, Odor-Eaters from the wonderful people at Blistex, Inc. has all but cured my feet of their poisonous odor. I can take off my sneakers at the end of a long shift without my wife screaming at me to throw those demonic things into the basement where they can do no harm, then ordering me to soak my feet in bleach.
Now I don’t fantasize about anything. I don’t even fantasize about beautiful women. When seeking porn, I look for moderately attractive chicks who are considered average by porn standards, and slightly above average for real world standards.
Essentially, girls who might reject me gently, as opposed to brutally.
During all those years when I wasn’t 30, I quietly daydreamed about how I could get better looking in the future. Now I know that’s not true. Right now, I’m the hottest I’m ever going to be. It’s all downhill from here.
The hill is not high. If I took my shirt off in public, people would stop and stare in bewilderment. “Look, an anthropomorphic jellyfish right here on our street!”
You can’t even consider me to be pale. It’s more like I’m translucent. If I stand in front of the sun you can see all my organs. And hey, I’m not completely lazy when it comes to fitness. I do plenty of bench presses and pushups to fight off my inevitable pair of man-tits but, folks, it’s one hell of a fight. The boys on Okinawa must have felt this way.
Now, if you all will excuse me, it’s time to spray my feet.