Another year has come and gone for me. On Wednesday, I bid 22 adieu and say hello to my 23rd year of life.
I’m not too thrilled about turning 23. For one thing, I prefer even numbers to odd ones in all cases. I’m not a numerologist and I don’t believe numbers carry any real significance, I just think even numbers are better. You can divide them up more easily without any nasty fractions coming into play.
For another, I have yet another milestone indication that I am “shorter of breath and one day closer to death” as David Gilmour barks desperately in “Time,” one of my favorite Pink Floyd songs. And like the song mentions, it seems like the older I grow, the faster the years go. Twenty-two went by so quickly that I don’t even remember what I did on my last birthday.
No, wait, that’s right. I was hanging out with my parents in Pampa, Texas. They made me a wonderful chocolate cake and gave me a new pair of pearl-snap shirts. Mom gave me her mandolin she had received as a gift years ago. Awesome.
What I’ll probably remember most about my 22nd year was my haphazard transition from student to full-time working person. The doomsday economic forecasts that dominated headlines last summer as they do today were a little discouraging when it came time to type up my resume, and I was never sure I would even find a job until I did.
But, lo and behold, sometime in the next few weeks will mark my first year spent here at work with you fine folks in Quay County. The summer sun is out again and everything seems like it was a year ago.
Except I probably gained about 15 pounds. But never mind that.
I guess I had better start preparing for my quarter-life crisis. Maybe I will buy a convertible and start calling people “dude,” or maybe get that tattoo I’ve been thinking about. Better yet, I’ll start dating a nice girl who has a tattoo and a convertible. Please let me know if you fit this description or know somebody who does. Thank you for your time and consideration.