Thirty-Eight Special

Let me get this out of the way first: I really wonder how many people who went to see John Hodgman at the Regulator on Friday night have already blogged about it, or will do so within the next 24 hours.  Not counting me, there were five other bloggers there who I know personally, and there were many, many people with digital cameras.  I would guess that all told, there were at least a dozen bloggers in attendance, probably more.  Xta will, it is to be hoped, have much to say about her interaction with the author, which I'm not going to spoil for you here.  Myself, I think my time with him left both of us feeling kind of hollow.  He was never less than gracious, but I guess I was hoping that he would be so taken with my wit that he would instantly adopt me as his sidekick or something, and instead of that happening I'm pretty sure what happened is that I came off as one of probably a hundred over-anxious guys that the Renowned Humorist has come across so far on this book tour, all trying just a little too hard to be funny. 

But, yeah: it was a fantastic event, and I am very happy that I was there.

So.  Anyway.  In a few days, I'll be thirty-eight years old, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

I mean, turning thirty-eight is better than not turning thirty-eight, I guess, and it's not like being thirty-eight will be that much different than being thirty-seven (although I will miss the mathematic elegance of having my age be a prime number, which will not happen again until I'm forty-one). 

I think it just bugs me that, in these thirty-eight years, I haven't really done much with my life.  I'm already older, for instance, than both my parents were when they had already had me and my older siblings.  (Also older than both said siblings were when they had found spouses and produced the first wave of nieces and nephews.)  Not that I particularly hold producing an offspring as a goal, but still -- I don't feel like as much of a grown-up as, statistically, one would think I would be.

So that I may depress myself further, here is a partial list of people who died when they were younger than I will be:

Buddy Holly (dead at 22)
Otis Redding (dead at 26)
Janis Joplin (dead at 27)
Hank Williams (dead at 29)
Christopher Marlowe (dead at 29)
Percy Bysshe Shelley (dead at 29)
Franz Schubert (dead at 31)
Robert Burns (dead at 37)
Jesus H. Christ (scholars differ on when he died, but probably before he was 38)

Also: the oldest of the Beatles was 29 when they broke up; they were all between 23 and 26 when they made their best album.  When John Cleese was 36, he had a Monty Python TV series and movie behind him, and was working on the first season of "Fawlty Towers." And Orson Welles was 25 when he made Citizen Kane. 

Okay.  Does it make sense for me to be comparing myself to, say, Jesus Christ and Otis Redding, in terms of accomplishment?  No, it clearly does not.  Am I feeling sorry for myself?  Yes, I clearly am.  Have I been weird about this birthday to some people, in various discrete contexts?  Yes, I clearly have, and to those people (you know who you are) I apologize.

Frankly, I've been a little depressed lately, maybe a little more so than usual.  I guess I just thought my life would be somehow better than it is now by this time. 

But don't we all?  Welcome to the human race, Sunny Jim.

So, when my actual thirty-eighth birthday comes to pass, I will undoubtedly tell myself that this will be the year that I get my shit together, that I pull myself up by my bootstraps and make my mark and get things done and fuckin' achieve something for once.  Which is probably also what I'll tell myself when my thirty-ninth and fortieth birthdays roll around, because that's what I tell myself every year.

Meanwhile, life will go on, and I'll continue to not be Otis Redding or Jesus Christ, and that will continue to be just fine, really. I guess.

Anyway.  Sorry you had to read all that.  Maybe as I begin my thirty-ninth year, I can resolve to not be so whiny and self-indulgent on the Internet.  But then, if everybody ceased to be whiny and self-indulgent, 85 percent of the Internet (not to mention 110 percent of MySpace) would cease to exist.  I'm just doing my part.

Comments

[Pants]

Jerrysan: sorry you are down, cause it sucks. That said, BUCK UP, little camper! (Oh I did not just go there...sorry. To me, at least, there's not much more annoying than people telling you to just FEEL better already!! I wasn't really doing that. I was making fun of other people doing that.)

Also, thank you for using the word 'discrete' in its correct spelling.

Finally, you are seeing things in a very different way than I see them. I see a very witty, well educated, awesome writer. Along with a caring soul who makes kick as no-bake oatmeal fudge cookies.

So nyah.

[Erin]

I have a present for you! And it is vaguely Hodgman-related! And I will send it ... Nov. 6. Because I forgot to send it yesterday and today I am traveling again. I am in an airport RIGHT NOW. Seriously. Check the IP.

Also: you are WAY funnier than Otis Redding. Even when he was alive.

[Sarah]

Dude....you can be my sidekick...no travel and little more than what you do already...I might want coffee.
perceptive souls can get the shit kicked out of them...stay out of your own way. (happy-b-day or not)....
Sarah.

[mykull]

sorry you're bummed about your birthday and stuff. i can relate. my goal in college was to become a famous poet. never mind that there are about a total of 500 people in the world who actually read poetry. on the sunny side, think of the many famous people who didn't become famous until after age 38. you still have many years left to write the great american novel / memoir / collection of humorous essays / coloring book. and when you do, we'll throw a big party for you. (but even if you don't, we'll still throw a big party for you. we don't need a reason. we'll just throw an impromptu jerry parade.)

[Marianne]

And I can relate too because my life is TOTALLY different from how I thought it would be. Here I am in the throes of middle age and I'm an overweight immigrant single mother. I thought I would have some cushy part-time gig and a rich hubbie, instead of working my ass off and having no free time. And yet - I'm very happy. I think low expectations are the key to happiness. Which in itself is probably a low expectation. I thought this would sound more cheerful than it ended up sounding - sorry!

[Phil]

Dude, are you telling me that John Cleese was still in his 30s when he started Fawlty Towers? With all that hair gone? And all that cynicism in its place? Amazing, what those Brits can do.

And I look forward to seeing you awfully soon.

[Pants]

Related to Marianne:

I, too, am in a very different place than I expected to be at 35, almost 36.

In middle school I remember envisioning my life in 1999 (b/c of Prince, natch); I was married and had kids.

The reality, which I have been pissy about recently, is that I haven't had a long-term boyfriend since the mid 90s. Boo.

You know? Just keep on keeping on, and the crap times pass.

[pinky]

I fully expected to be in an entirely different place by now, too. A better one! With more money, more candy, and a much smaller pants size!

(although how the more candy=smaller pants size thing works out, I'm not sure. I never was good at math)

Sorry I couldn't see JH in my town, but it was not meant to be. I was busy hoofing all over campus getting the most impressive blister ever on the ball of my foot. So I guess all was not lost.

[Tom]

Jerry low and blue
Reverse to go down for up
Unhappy Birthday

[Jerry]

Y'all are too sweet. Thanks.

[Pants]

Hippo Birdy Two Ewe.

Works better with a picture. Hm.