Trendysomething in SoMo
Early bloomer: A mid-life crisis strikes at age 25
Reading feedback from CultureMap readers is one of the most enriching parts of writing. Oftentimes I learn things about myself that I had never before considered.
Case in point: Last Sunday, a reader by the name of "LOL" commented on my review of Selena Gomez at the rodeo,
Steve Thompson <----- Asshole alert! "I don't despise Gomez" ... umm sure you don't. Next time, do everyone a favor and don't go to any of her shows. One lame review is enough. The great thing is that she doesn't have to hear what this 42 year old man has to say about her LOL :D
I wasn't so struck by the misspelling of my name as I was by the false accusation that I'm 42. I'm barely a solid month into my 25th year, and am even still adjusting to that high number. What made her think I were so old? Is it the corduroy in my mug? My disdain for Disney-themed teenage pop stars?
The next day, I found myself leaning down to pick up something at the office (a roll of toilet paper, if you must know). I heard a sharp "snap" on my way back up, and soon was incapacitated, all while an executive meeting was held in the adjoining conference room.
I clandestinely slithered back to my desk, confounded by how a time-tested "bend and snap" could cause so much discomfort. Indeed, I had thrown out my back.
And then it dawned on me: Am I 42 years old?
After struggling through part of the afternoon to focus on writing, I finally submitted to the wrenching pain and drove myself home. While marooned behind a freight train, I stopped to take stock of my situation. My ears were slightly tuned into the softly humming NPR broadcast as I pondered on my tax return inside a 10-year-old Buick.
It was at that point that I concluded that I am officially a middle-aged man.
When I was 17, I went to a fortune teller in a dirty house on lower Westheimer. She told me that I'm an "old soul," which she refused to elaborate upon once I revealed that I only had a credit card with my parents' name on it.
Upon further thought, I've realized there's a difference between a sagacious old soul and that lurking half-century-old character on the far side of the bar at Guava Lamp, offering to buy you a Shirley Temple just so he can take you home and put on a Best of Rod Stewart album.
Will I ever come back down to my appropriate age? In my current muscle relaxer-induced identity crisis, all I can hope is that one day, my back will heal — hopefully in time for Ms. Gomez-Bieber's 2012 rodeo performance.