My wife is trying to explain to me the difference between face cream and body cream. You have got to be kidding me. I couldn’t tell the difference between face cream and bear fat if you got the actual bear to fat all over me. Apparently there is a hand cream as well. Come on people, our ancestors are pretending they don’t know us right now. People used to pour on whale blubber and now there is 453 kinds of hand cream, or face cream, how would I know the freaking difference?

I like that orange smelling stuff because I’m a complex contemporary man and it makes me smell yummy. I don’t know what body part I’m supposed to get the cream for, so I’m just going to ask for the orange stuff. It’s like that sexist joke about women who, when asked what kind of car it was, said it was yellow. People who know their oils are looking at me like car salesmen, shaking their head. I grew up in the 70’s, we had vaseline.

It’s my birthday today. By the time you read this it won’t be my birthday anymore so you don’t have to do the obligatory “Happy Birthday!!” (gag). There isn’t a cream on the market for what I have going on. Getting older may be easier for some but I’ve rarely been accused of being “some”. I’m more about fighting reality to the bitter end, pretending I’m still cool while rocking that pulled up white socks and sandal combination and eating at 3 pm. Sexy. I’ll be that weirdo in his 80’s asking my kids what clothes I should buy without realizing they are talking on behalf of 60 year olds. Time to take a loan out on some Birkenstocks.

Getting older sucks. On most days I’ll fling you as many platitudes as you can stomach about living your life to the full but tonight, not so much. I’m only asking that one of you takes me aside the first time I think wearing socks with sandals is cool and gives me the old 5-iron to the temple. And what is up with that pants pulled up to the nipples thing? I saw a guy in his 50’s with a mullet the other day, sporting a speedo. Middle-aged women wearing that blouse with the pirate ruffles and flower pattern, talking about yogurt and their crappy marriages while carrying that annoying water bottle because it’s 11 feet to the nearest hydration source.

Thankfully you aren’t forced to grow up. I disappointed some family members recently when I announced that I plan on not getting any more mature. I’ve peaked. You can imagine how supportive they were. I refuse to stop using sarcasm and bad jokes and comic books. I could care less about 90% of the tripe that middle-aged people talk about, and I won’t be watching NCIS anytime soon. Milkshakes and candy and chocolate (this is the part you quote after I die of Diabetes). Life is getting shorter all the time and I can’t believe how many people spend their precious moments endlessly complaining about pretty much everything. Counsellor Scott can listen to you all day, but if we’re friends and we’re out kayaking you better not spend the entire time complaining about your spouse or I’m going to start fantasizing about drowning you. Living your life as a bitter old citizen may be fine for some people but I’m not dead yet. I’d rather talk about philosophy and good beer and amazing stories. I want to jam and travel and experience.

I might even skydive again.