Whatever that psycho-speak means, I’m just tired of doing shit because I’m guilted into it by society, the media, and Hallmark/American Greetings. My first great age-inspired rebellion was a gift to myself in my mid-twenties, and it set the wheels in motion for the crash of a five-year relationship. I had been unhappy for months, but stayed with her because it was the adult thing to do. “Relationships hit rough spots,” people told me. “Weather the storm. You’ll be happy when you’re married.” Doubtful. The two biggest hurdles in that race to the altar were religion and sex—too much of one and none of the other.

The argument started because she was expecting an engagement ring. I told her I didn’t have any money to spend on a ring. She asked about the money I’d been saving, and I told her to stop being ridiculous. That money was long gone, spent on a trip to Las Vegas with four friends. What trip to Vegas? Oh, right, sorry, forgot to tell you. I’m going to Vegas…with the boys…and without you.

The truth is, I was unhappy. I dreaded the life that was coming if I gave her that ring. I was too old (or was it too young?) to be unhappy. I was definitely too old to be told how and where to spend my money. “I think this is understood well in terms of an age-related conflict of identity,” says Dr. Small. “You’re struggling to define yourself in terms of who you are, who you feel you ought to be, and who you want yourself to be.”

Well, now I’m well on my way to being the man I want to be, and combining that with who I ought to be. I’m looking forward to reaching an advanced age and living life like a carefree, Metamucil-chugging Master of the Universe who just doesn’t give a fuck anymore. I’m looking forward to it so much that I refuse to wait. I’m going to emulate those men in their sixties and seventies who display more of a “this is my life—go fuck yourself” attitude than any rebellious teen. Those old coots figuratively spit in society’s face and society takes it because they’ve earned respect by being our elders. Or it could be because the old fucks could drop dead at any moment. Whatever the reason, I yearn for the carte blanche attitude and tapioca-pudding treats that await me at Trembling Hills for the Old and Soon Departed.

Hopefully my kids will come by to say hello once in a while. They shouldn’t feel obligated, though. They’ll be old enough to make their own choices. And if they’re too busy to visit the old man, I’ll choose to call them selfish bastards…and society will forgive me

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