why getting old doesn’t have to suck

　　Now that I’m in my thirties, I can attest that passing into the middle-age years bears one incredible gift: a new way to avoid shit that annoys me.
　　With age comes perks. The year on a birth certificate allows access past the velvet ropes of some of life’s guilty pleasures. You drive a car at 16 or 17. At 18, you drive that car to the nearest strip club. The milestone of 21 allows you to legally drink and gamble. (Note the word legally.) A friend commented at my 21st-birthday shindig that there’s not much to celebrate about aging after blowing out the flames on the giant “2” and “1” candles. He was correct. Every birthday since then has been an absolute fucking bore. Thirty was no big deal. I could give a shit about the impending 4-0, literally and figuratively, depending on how gentle the doctor is during my recommended prostate exam.
　　My progression in years, however, has led to a new found freedom from obligatory bullshit, a regression in the behavior society deems appropriate and necessary for a man. While most guys become more docile and compliant each year (the “suck it up” mentality), I’ve decided to free myself of all those obligations, occasions, responsibilities, and situations that annoy the shit out of me. This is me flashing my age credentials. I was born in 1977. Yes, it was a very good year. Now to reap some benefits.
　　The beer in my fridge is just as cold as the beer at the bar, and I’m too old to let uninterested women milk me for drinks. Let the kid down the street sweat through his boxers while cutting the grass. I’ll hand him a crisp Ulysses S. for his troubles. A man my age doesn’t attend all-day concerts, and he certainly doesn’t piss and drink on the same spot of land. Plus, I can finally tell my mother no. “I’m 33 years old, Mom! I don’t have to attend every family function. I don’t care how disappointed Uncle Cecil will be if I’m a no-show at his salute-to-spring party. Didn’t Uncle Cecil miss my high school graduation? What goes around comes around.”
　　I’m not alone. This could almost be considered acceptable behavior in men of a certain age. Clinical psychologist Dr. Jacob Small explains,
　　“What feels right can, over time, also feel constraining and obligatory, leading to what psychologists call ‘reactance,’ or an obstinate rejection of those responsibilities.”
　　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.