In another month, I’ll be 33 years old. This fact doesn’t bother me very much. What bothers me is the behaviors I’m starting to notice — behaviors which I’m not sure are attributable to age, mood, unemployment, or just the phases of the moon.
To begin with, I find it damn near impossible to consume large quantities of alcohol anymore. Actually, I’m pretty happy about this. I can’t remember the last time I got really drunk (no word play intended) or the last time I had a really nasty hangover. I worried about this a bit as I became unemployed. It’s such a cliche after all — the unemployed lush, etc. Actually, I find myself drinking less and less as my unemployment grows longer and longer.
I seem quite content with my computer, a book, and a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles. I do seem to be developing a bit of a nesting urge, though. I don’t really want a boyfriend particularly, although if the right prospect came along I’d consider the idea. I have, however, developed a strange urge to get a dog. Go figure…
My hormones still rage, I guess, as my masturbatory frequency remains undiminished (enhanced, even…) It just seems so much easier to have a nice wank at bedtime than to hit the streets looking for a willing participant. And when I do hit the streets, I see fewer and fewer prospects who (a) interest me or (b) are interested. Maybe I’ve raised my standards. Or maybe I’m just getting lazier. Who knows?
Maybe it’s related to the matter of my patience level. Or lack thereof. If the perfect person doesn’t show up ready to leave with me within five minutes of my appearance at whatever venue, I’ve had it and I’m ready to go.
But it’s not just “the hunt”. I’m becoming impatient with EVERYONE and EVERYTHING. My throat is raw from screaming every time I drive lately. Then again, everyone in SF seems to be having this problem; too many newcomers in Volvos I guess. Email spam drives me nuts. Waiting for Netscape or IE to do ANYTHING makes me crazy. The never-ending pledge breaks on KQED are giving me fits; I’d rather have commercials. And don’t get me started on the few minutes of the Pride Parade I watched on TV while cleaning the toilet in my rainbow T-shirt and pink triangle jockstrap.
So what say? Old age? Summertime blues? Unemployment ennui? Clinical depression? Any suggestions? I think I’m too young to be a curmudgeon, although it’s something I’ve always aspired toward…
