So yesterday (Tuesday) I made a tongue-in-cheek, slightly horny comment about an image a hot Playboy model I am Facebook friends with. I told her that I could see her areola peeking out from a slightly open shirt she was wearing. I said the same a while back about another of her photos and she was teasing back, "No, you can't!" or some shit like that. I didn't think anything of it because her past reaction has been really, really cool.
I'm stopping by at the bank on my home from work. I heard a buzz from my phone while I was driving. Thought it was a stripper who's going to be at this house party I'll attend later this week. But instead it was this Playboy model, and whoops, she's mad. She said that my comment made her unfriend me. I apologized to no avail; she said I was a sad person (very true) and told me to fuck off.
This is now the second time this month I have pissed off a Playboy model with something I typed on Facebook. That first time the offended comment wasn't a perverted come-on, but a shrug to something she felt very passionately about. However, my reaction to this woman's outrage is, well, a shrug. So no, hot babe, I will not fuck off.
Why not? Because goddamn, I am not a man! I'm 40!
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That age always held a mystifying milestone for me when I was young. It seemed like everybody had a midlife crisis at that age. So am I, but then again (and I know I'm kind of ripping off Mitch Hedberg here), I was having a midlife crisis before I was 40, too.
Since I became an adult I've been embarrassed about my birthdays. Maybe I get it from my parents, of which (and I'm totally serious about this) I know neither of their birthdays. But it's just too much fuss for me. That attitude has taken on a fatalistic attitude the past decade -- now, I don't want to celebrate my birthday as much because it reminds me that I'm one year closer to death. And yet this birthday, my 40th, ramps up the angst even further. I have always grown up thinking that people die in their seventies. So if that's the case, and if you turn 40, there are more birthdays behind you than ahead of you.
That fact is frightening. I still catch myself thinking from time to time (inbetween bouts of sex, of course) that, "Oh my goodness, I'm fucking 40 years old!!!" It hasn't hit me like a ton of bricks so much as it's kneading me repeatedly, every day, like a rolling pin.
It should change me, being 40. It really hasn't, but it kind of has. Am I going to quit my job and buy a convertible? No. But I must admit that this month I have been less tolerant of things I don't care for. For example, this job whose surprise promotions have offended me. If I were younger, I probably would have let it roll off my back and say, "Whatever." Not this time. In this case I really wanted to leave. I feel bad for putting these guys in the lurch, but I really don't like that this happened. And, when the smoke clears in the off-season, I plan on talking to somebody to get to the bottom of why the hell they did this.
And in the meantime I am tired of trying to be sufficiently contrite to the people I mistakenly insult over the innocent and dumb comments I say. Especially on the Internet, where nobody says anything shocking because everybody says something shocking. OK, I get it, they didn't like what I said. I tried to say sorry, but it doesn't look as if they're taking me back. (However, and this is important to note, the first PB model hasn't defriended me, and so far this PB model hasn't thrown me off of her fan page, just her, uh, personal one.) And you know what? Before I would get real depressed over her rejection. But now I say, fuck it. I tried my best, but there are a bunch of other naked women I follow, and I would rather stay in touch with those babes, the ones who can roll sicko comments like mine off their backs, or even better, say that they like them! I'm not saying they're bitches. They can like or not like anything I say. And I can do as much or as little apologizing as I want before calling it a day. We walk away from being Internet friends, not actual friends. And life goes on. Because I am now 40.
Well, I have to admit that to get back to her I looked at some photos of her on Vintage Erotica Forum and beat one off to her. Pics like yours make me a pervert, you idiot!
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I've been listening to Chris Cornell's acoustic version of his song "Can't Change Me" a lot this month, especially after turning 40. This has always been a beautiful song, including the electrified original with a Mediterranean-sounding guitar lick with flamenco influences throughout. But I've gotten more and more emotional listening to this solo rendition after my birthday, where it's just Mr. Cornell and a guitar (and an outlet to plug in the acoustic). What he is saying completely speaks to how I'm feeling at my advanced age. I'm not proud of who I've become, nor am I ashamed. After decades of wrestling within myself over why I can't be a more accomplished man and a better contributor to society, I realize that I can only do so much, and that at the end of the day, I have to be happy with myself, and if that's not good enough for others or the Mankind, well, I am sorry, but I have to do me, first and always. I think I am at peace with that realization. And that might be my only takeaway for turning The Big 4-0.
This may be my favorite song now. Thank you, Mr. Cornell.
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