I'm officially old. I don't necessarily mean old in the "years spent on this planet" sense. I mean in the "things were a lot different ten years ago" sense. Take, for example, my most recent birthday which I celebrated this past Saturday (I'll let Dennis from an anarcho-syndicalist commune tell you just how old I am). My gifts-received list includes a lopper, two garden hoses, two hedge clippers, a case of adult diapers and a cemetery plot. Well, maybe not the last two...but the first five items are indeed currently residing in my garage.
What I'm struggling to discover is just when I became so boring that I consider lawn and garden tools to be acceptable gifts? I recall the day when birthday wrappings concealed far less practical items...things like sky-diving lessons, stereo equipment and the occasional meth lab. To be fair to my wonderful family, I didn't receive any gifts that I did not specifically express a desire for. This, of course, only reinforces the feeling that I have undergone a sort of premature oldification...the feeling that my days of youthful exuberance are gone...the realization that I am rapidly becoming...middle aged.
My long weekend of personal discovery continued on into Monday morning. As my alarm rudely jolted me out of bed, I immediately felt a compelling need (stronger than on most Mondays) to pull a "sick day" out of my back pocket. While working for The Man (or in my case, five women) may have its drawbacks, the off-the-cuff sick day is certainly not one of them. After enjoying about two extra hours of uninterrupted slumber, I arose from bed refreshed and ready to do all those things I always picture myself doing when I'm chained to my desk at the office.
And how did I really spend this precious day of freedom, you ask? I trimmed the bushes, pruned the trees, watered the plants and mowed the lawn. I may be a boring old fart...but my yard sure looks nice.
Now, where did I put that old meth lab?