sursly

 As of 9ish AM this morning I’m an old man who needs a cane, white shoes, and a condo in Florida…observe:

I laughed about this a few years ago when my sister went through The Experience, but I couldn’t even chuckle when I looked into the mirror this morning and saw it smack in the middle of my head: The Grey Hair.

And why shouldn’t I laugh?  I’m young.  I’m healthy (ok, slightly malnourished).  I don’t care about a tiny, grey hair.

But there it is.  Flat, dull, and void of color, on top of my shiny red mane…the product of almost two years of parenting, nine years of avoiding assholes on the road, 17 years in school, six years of photoshop, and countless late nights watching Point Break.
What comes next, glasses? Arch support inserts? I guess I should be grateful, I mean at least I sill have hair.  Although I’m sure I’m not far off from that wonderful milestone.

This is such a lame, trivial moment but it is hard to overlook.  What happened to all those things I was supposed to do by 25?  You know, the cool, cliche stuff like skydiving, backpacking through Europe, headlining Lollapalooza, showing my ta-tas for beads…meth?

And does this mean I’m too old to play Super Mario Bros. 3?  Excitebike?

I guess I don’t know what it means, aside from the ritual that I’ll have to perform momentarily, which involves plucking The Hair from my head with chopsticks, igniting it with the flame of a sandlewood candle while listening to Phil Collins…naked.

And this probably isn’t a good time to bitch about our car hitting 100,000 miles either.

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