Broken Frontier

Not that I need to point out the obvious, but we just transitioned into yet another year.  While most people are thinking about their unattainable resolutions, I have something else on my mind… Getting old, but at the same time not showing any signs of aging.  At least mentally anyway.

As of March 17, 2008, yours truly will be making that monumental, unstoppable leap forward in life.  I’m turning 30!

This historic steppingstone can be a real downer for a lot of people as they hit that all too common life crisis of realizing they are one year closer to death, but for me, I’m having more difficulty trying to wrap my mind around what it even means to be 30.  My problem is, although I keep tacking on a year every 12 months, I don’t feel any older than I did on the day I graduated from high school.  Sure I’m more mature than that long-haired grad and my knees hurt when I wake up in the morning now, but in terms of 30 having an actual feeling… It’s not what I expected.

Let me just say that I don’t have any kids as of yet, so I’m sure that plays into catapulting a person into a different stratosphere of adulthood, but at the same time, would a wee little one really change me?  Could having a mini me stop me from waking up every Saturday morning to watch a Batman cartoon?  Would procreating like a pro keep me from giving my buddy a wet willy when he turned the other way?  Can a bouncing baby boy put a complete halt on my love for ping pong Olympics?

I don’t think I could feasibly EVER grow up enough to stop doing the above mentioned things.  When I’m 80, I’d love to lick my finger and stick it into the guy’s ear lying in the bed next to me at the rest home.  For me, there’s a time and a place for maturity, just as there’s a time and a place for taking a youthful embrace on life.  Age shouldn’t change who you are, though the many gray hairs on my head would disagree.  Instead, adding a year to your life should be a celebration of living yet another 365 days to its fullest as defined by the person blowing out the candles.  If that means handing out wet willies to everyone at your party, do it with your head held high and with a shit eating grin painted all over your face.

The truth is, I’d rather be remembered for how I lived than for how I aged.  I’m not a bottle of wine or a block of cheese, but instead a 30-year-old shell with an ageless soul riding out the storm inside.  I may wrinkle up and get a crooked hunch in a few years, but I won’t change who I am.  Not at 30.  Not at 40.  And certainly not at 80.

Besides, I write comics for a living.  How old can I be?