40

It's one of those trite, played out cliches from the movies.  The coach going into the locker room of the downtrodden team at halftime, telling the team that "Nothing matters less than the score at halftime!  Nothing!"

I guess that's got some merit to it...but it's human nature for us all to measure everything isn't it?  Maybe more so for guys.  The competitive streak.  All the measuring.

     

To take stock of where we've been, what we've learned...and -- well, the "score" at halftime.

To compare ourselves to others, to measure our wallets, our friends, the richness of all our experiences?  The number of  friends, the distances of our travels, the things we've acomplished... Am I where I wanted to be by this point in my life? 

So I hit a milestone birthday a few days ago (lie: this is another late blog) in a very DELIBERATE, non-descript, quiet ceremony.  Good way to hit middle age.

Thanks again to everyone out there for not throwing me a surprise birthday party for the 40th year in a row.  A**holes.  Could I have dropped any more hints?

So...um...yeah...    middle age.

And you know what?  It's not so bad!  I don't feel forty, and on a maturity level I'm not a day past twenty-five!



Dork-boy at 40.
Photo cred: the Nororious BNC



Which is pretty nice considering I can recall how very depressed I was about turning thirty a decade ago.  That odd insufferable rut of depression that lasted a month.

So while I'm in a measuring mood, the past few years has given me more volitile peaks and valleys than I ever thought possible in my otherwise ordinary life.  Had lots of amazing things happen.  Had a lot of truly awful things happen.  Lost a lot of people in my life.  Crucial people.  The ones you can't replace. 

Really big highs and really big lows leading up to this halfway point. 

Lessons learned?  Lots.  Hope I'm the wiser for all my mistakes.  I really do.

But come to think of it, this might not be my halftime pep-talk at all. 

I've had a sister that died at 50.  Another amazing sister died just recently at 52.   My dad died at 60 and my mom just over a year ago at 63. 

So I've got a good idea on what Vegas's "line" on my own personal over/under is for my personal return to quiet-time inside the Earth.  Mississippi has the lowest life expectancy of all the states, and it looks like if I were a betting man, I'd STILL have to take the "under" on that number when it comes to myself.  It just looks like things are lined up that way genetically.

So instead of a halftime speech, this may be my own third quarter commentary leading into...well, let's hope its a hell of an exciting fourth quarter!  Hey, I'm not too thrilled about it, but on the flip side, I don't feel compelled to save for retirement.  You gotta play the odds you know.  Besides, if I do accidentally live to a ripe old age, social security will always be there to take care of me, right?!*

I did think about marking the occasion with my first tattoo. There's an activity that screams mid-life crisis, huh?!  I've always shied away from tattoos because I could never think of any one design I'd never get tired of.  But I did consider getting that recycle symbol put on my butt with "Organ Donor" written underneath it.  Pretty responsible, and it would have been a good giggle for the undertaker; not to mention a good cause which I'm very fond of.  We're all just made of parts and we should be willing to give these parts to whomever needs them once we're done with them. 

The local place I considered here in South Mississippi has a picture of a young Brett Favre getting a tattoo on his butt.  Ever wanted to know what's tattooed on Brett Favre's bottom by the way?  The correct answer: a leprechan chugging a beer.  It's true.  Bet you could have gone without knowing that.  Try removing that thought.  How's that workin' out for you?



There he is!  Right next to the bounty on his ass!  Get him!!!



Now the reason I decided not to get my first tattoo to mark the halfway point occasion is because, as some of you know, I have daughters.  And at some point, many years down the line, they're going to want to get a tattoo.  So when they approach me with this very impassioned everybody-else-is-doing-it plea, I'll tell them that that's actually great idea and that I'll go along with them to get my first one too!  This idea of their wrinkly old bastard father getting a tattoo should mortify them just as much as the idea of my daughters getting a tattoo horrifies me.  I call this reverse-psychological trick "tattoo leverage," and look forward to springing that mind game on them in another decade or so. 

The Patrick Swayze Chippendale/ Minotaur/ Rainbow calf tattoo.  A popular choice as well.  Daddy's gonna get this on his calf!  C'mon!  Let's go!!  Wait...why aren't you coming?  You changed your mind?  Really?  Awwwww!  That's a shame!

So, back to my actual birthday.  Here's how it went down on the actual MINUTE I turned forty that morning.

I'm driving three miles an hour outside of my kids' school.  I drive slower than any other parent because I have a fear of not being able to see a kid and hitting him/her.  That's about the speed at which I crept through the stop sign everyone ignores, because there is really never any imminent danger or traffic anywhere.

Captain Safety (pictured below), and I don't think I'm prone to hyperbole, was zooming into the adjacent police station at about 735 mph and attempts to cross over my lane on two wheels, Dukes of Hazard style.  In a flash he ignites his super high strength police lights at me and blares his siren.  Great.



"F...................e...................b...............r..............u....................a.............................
45 minutes later, I'd get my ticket. 

"

...at birth?



Separated...



I was still just waking up so I'm sure my total lack of early morning smooth talking got me nowhere.  Up until now in the new vehicle, I've gone 6-0 against the po-po, having diplomatically dodged six tickets by getting a personalized license plate from the NRA.  Cost?  $35/year. Why did I choose an NRA license plate?  Well, it's no secret that every police officer is a gun freak and has a 90% chance of being a member of the NRA.  When they see the plate, they associate with you immediately, and assume you're a pretty good guy.  Also, when they ask you if there are any guns in the vehicle, it gives you a chance to talk a bit with them and divert the subject of your infraction you've just been pulled over for.  Result:  no ticket.  I've blown more stop signs, red lights and speeding ordinances in several states and gotten away with it because of my special plate.   The way I see it, if it were prorated, I'm probably really paying only $0.02 for every time I've blatently broken the law in so many states since getting this one ticket.  Not to mention the plate in your driveway sends out a clear message to potential burglars:  You might prefer trying to rob my neighbor instead. 

But apparantly with Captain Saftey here, my Jedi mind trick was an epic fail.  He burst out of the car, lept into the air and over his truck's hood, sliding down it dramatically with a pen in one hand and ticket pad in the other.  For a second, I thought I heard theme music.  The NRA license had no effect.  My birthday on my driver's license had no effect.  My polite explanation fell on deaf ears.  Maybe, just maybe the only thing on my car that would have changed his mind would be a bumper sticker that said, "I F*CKING LOVE SKOAL CHEWING TOBACCO.  IT IS AWESOME!!!"

Seriously, if I can tell from twenty-five yards away that you're chewing tobacco, you have a serious problem.  Officer, that wad in your mouth (see picture #2) looks about as thick as a 16 oz. sirloin steak, but, hey, it's your preriodontal concern, not mine.  And, yeah, I realize I'm appearing now to be a "tough guy hiding behind a computer screen writing this."  But just let me say there's something ironic about getting a $185 ticket from a cop who's obviously more buzzed than a space monkey. Why doesn't he just crack open a Pabst Blue Ribbon while he's in his comfort zone?  Lawnchair?  I mean how many government employees get to chew tobacco on the clock? 

What would your reaction be if you went to your surgical appointment and your doctor was spitting a wad into a plastic cup?  How about your chef?  Or your insurance agent?  Would you take them seriously?  Can you think of any profession where chewing tobacco should be considered ok?  Ok, baseball.  So...he should wear cleats next time he writes a ticket I guess.

He slaps the ticket in my hand and tells me to have a good morning.  It really felt like, "welcome to the age of defeat."  But that feeling...went away.  And out of pure stubbornness, enjoyed the hell out of the rest of my day.

So how am I doing?  What's the measuring stick say? 

Well I'm nowhere close to retired yet, but I'm not quite a drooling ward of the state. 

I'm not quite satisfied with where I've been, but excited about where I'm headed.

I'm not doing as good as the guy with the greener grass on the other side of the hill, but I'm not concerned at all with him either!

Just somewhere in the middle. No need to measure; just happy to be here.  So what else matters?  :)

And finally ready to start playing a full series of tournaments again.  As the ignominious Chad Burns would say...IOWAnt to play Texas Hold 'em!!!

See ya soon in Cedar Rapids, tough guy!

Being thrity-nine isn't so bad after all!!!

And when you turn 89, you get to make out with Paris Hilton!  Can't wait!!!

*Research shows that by 2037, the Social Security trust fund will be entirely depleted.  If you're forty or younger and reading this today, you are 100% screwed.  Also, your entire country will be insolvent.  But thank you for contributing payments all your life to the world's greatest pyramid scheme!  The US government kinda makes Bernie Madoff look like an insignifigant Bourbon Street Three Card Monte hustler, doesn't it?