“This isn’t flying. It’s falling with style.”
Age 21: Look at you! You’re an adult. Congratulations, you’re on the clock.
Age 22: “I just ousted @TipsyTina69 as mayor of Purple Gator Bar & Grill on @foursquare!”
Age 23: A song/poem/story/painting/playlist you created no longer functions as an acceptable gift for your girlfriend.
Age 24: “This is just a temporary thing, until I figure out what I really want to do with my life.”
Age 25: Missing a day’s work because you went out with your friends and got shitfaced stops being funny.
Age 26: Vacation destinations you can cross off your list: Cancun, Amsterdam, any trip or tour that involves a backpack.
Age 27: Things you can no longer have in your apartment, even in an ironic sense: A futon that you sleep on. Mismatched dishes. A roommate.
Age 28: You will never again walk into a bar and pick up a chick based solely and entirely on how hot you are. Also over: any drink served in a vial, test tube or girl’s navel.
Age 29: That temporary thing you were doing, while keeping your options open? It’s your thing now. The window for a radical career change is closed, unless you’re going to do something weird like become a hospice attendant or a Sea Org Scientologist.
Age 30: The first two items you’ve crossed off your “Essential Qualities in a Perfect Husband” are: A) Has a full head of hair and B) Has a nice car.
Age 31: Dude, put your shirt back on.
Age 32: If it’s not in a frame, don’t put it on the wall.
Age 33: Jesus Christ got out at 33. His timing was impeccable.
Age 34: You’ve lost that “first step.” You’re standing in right field during the company softball game and you see the ball come off the bat and your brain flashes a signal to your feet, That’s off to your left and deep. But nothing happens. Your feet don’t move for one second, two seconds, and then there’s nothing to do but go get the ball where it’s rolling to a stop at the fence.
Age 35: “I’m sorry, sir. The club’s at capacity right now. If you could just … they’re invited guests, sir. If you could just … Sir? Yes, behind the rope. Thank you, sir.”
Age 36: You can stop calling it a “starter home” now. It’s your home.
Age 37: The remaining two items on your “Essential Qualities in a Perfect Husband” list are: P) Has a sense of humor, and Q) Has no criminal record.
Age 38: Does the reunion coordinator of your high school graduating class have your correct address? Really? Why?
Age 39: No one cares about your taste in music.
Age 40: “I’ve heard that Brad Pitt gets growth hormone therapy. You think that stuff works?”
Age 41: Events at which you are no longer welcome: A) The office happy hour, B) Any bachelor’s party, anywhere, C) Speed dating.
Age 42: It’s not all about how you wear your hat. In fact, take it off. You look like an ass.
Age 43: You’ve now completed the transition from “ladies’ man” to “commitment-phobic” to “confirmed bachelor” to “probably gay.”
Age 44: “Will you please stop calling me Sir?”
Age 45: Professionally speaking, you’re at the top of your game now in terms of knowledge and productivity, which means your company is essentially done with you. In interoffice mail terms, you’re now a Cc: When you slip to Bcc: keep an empty cardboard box near your desk.
Age 46: You’re too old to die tragically young.
Age 47: “You have a blog? Really. Isn’t that funny. You know, I always thought that was a kid thing, like, how do they say it? Tweeting?”
Age 48: Vacations to exotic locales are now much more likely to involve a bus and a tour guide, rather than a Vespa and a picnic basket.
Age 49: Actually, no, your kids won’t find that interesting.
Age 50: Mail’s here! Hey, look, your AARP card arrived. Congratulations, you’re dead.
Related: Too Old For The Club
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