My death notice would now say, “Dwight Irwin, in his 30th year.”
A morbid thought for a guy celebrating on his 29th birthday, but hey, if rainbows shined out of our asses all the time we wouldn’t need toilet paper, would we?
OK, I’m not sure that made any sense and I think I’m still buzzing from that four-layer, quadruple-fudge, cookie-and-frosting-in-the-middle cake we had at the office today. I swear, my employees are trying to kill me, or at least do so slowly through early on-set diabetes caused by high blood sugar and obesity.
So yeah, somewhere in this mess of a post I’m trying to say that today is my 29th birthday. I have 364 days, four hours and a few precious minutes until I turn the corner at 30 and “become an adult” as my news editor Jeanne (who has been her version of an ‘adult’ for a couple of decades) said today. Well, compared to what I was doing 10 years ago tonight (19 is the legal drinking age in Ontario), I think adulthood not only arrived a long time ago, it tied me to a chair, punched me in the face, kicked me in the groin, and then doused me in gasoline, lit a cigarette and flicked the ashes just out of range of the fumes, leaving me in constant fear of what could happen if it takes one step closer.
Not to be dramatic or anything.
But, for proof, I had to stop halfway through that sentence and clean up The Hurricane’s pee from behind the rocking chair in her room. It was a tub-to-change table accident that she fessed up to quickly, and without guilt.
So yeah, I don’t think my life will change much now that I’m ‘In my 30th year’, because I’m already doing exactly what I want to be doing, minus the 50 goal seasons with the Leafs, the multi-million dollar contracts and the bathing in Dom Perignon while eating rare condor eggs sunny-side up (I assume that’s what rich people do).
So happy birthday to me, I guess. The number doesn’t mean much any more, and for every day I’m here it’s another 24 hours I get to spend with those I love, so how bad can it be?
Plus, there will be a time in the next week, year, decade, quarter century or (hopefully) 70 years, where I’d give anything to see another birthday, so I’m not going to lament them now.