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May 16, 2004

Turning 40

Okay, it's happened. I'm old.

Just a couple of months ago I was a young cool hipster in my 30s. Now I'm am boring old fart in my 40s. Sweet Mother of Jesus, the transition has been sudden and painful! The most obvious indicator is what is known in clinical circles as "the supermodel reflex".

A year ago I talked my way into the afterparty for the launch of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. It was easily the highlight of my social calendar that year. I had a fantastic time and I doubt my eyes have ever been happier.

This year was the 40th anniversary of the swimsuit edition. I automatically received an invite because of my attendance at the last party. But I just couldn't get excited about it. Deep within my heart, something was wrong. I no longer cared. My brain, thinking logically about it, just couldn't believe it. I forced myself to tell people how excited I was but it just didn't seem to matter. I lied to them. Yes. I lied to my friends and colleagues. That's what happens when you turn 40. You start lying to people. No doubt that is why you almost never see a politician in their 20s and 30s. They simply haven't developed the tools for the job.

I accepted the invite, of course. And then cast about my immediate circle to find someone to go with me. My wife couldn't come. My crazy landlord also wasn't interested. (Now THAT is just bizarre! If I've turned old, he must have turned dead). The only person I could get to come with me was my friend B, who is without a doubt one of the most gorgeous women I know. So, now, not only was I going to a supermodel party but I was also going with a companion who would have fit right in. People would think I was a supermodel househusband. I'd be considered safe. Rachel Hunter would chat me up; invite me back to her place; we'd become fast friends; Vicki and I would become regulars at her country estate; we'd have weekly champagne hot tub orgies.

Except that I didn't really want to go. It's not B. I love B to bits. I'm happy to go out for a drink with her at the drop of a hat. I just worried that I wouldn't fit in. And who would I talk to? And what if it's smoky and loud? And besides it starts too late. And I have tons of work to do. And what if they play that new hip hoop music and I can't dance to it? And I just didn't seem to care.

"WTF! It's a party awash with supermodels! They'll be close to butt-naked! Go!" That's what the logical part of my brain was saying. The emotional part of my heart was saying, "Ah, the hell with it, I'm tired." When I was young (e.g. last year) my brain and heart seemed to take opposite positions in this debate.

BRAIN: Maybe you shouldn't go. You're almost forty. You won't fit in. Vicki might get jealous. You should get some sleep.

HEART: Supermodels! Yummy! Go!

As it happens, I came down with a vicious cold days before the event. My heart and brain continued to duke it out:

BRAIN: This is perfect. You can now go the party. You can stay there all night and no one will blink if you call in sick the next day. They'll assume it's because of the disease.

HEART: Bleaurgh. I feel awful. Must sleep. Young girls noisy. Yuck.

In the end I made a compromise (a very middle-aged, boring thing to do). I called in sick the day of the event. I lied to my BRAIN and told it it was so I could get well enough to go to the party. My HEART knew better.

I didn't go to the party. Instead, I lay awake all that night in a blind panic about all the work that I was supposed to be doing and trying to ignore my brain that was screaming at me about how if I'm awake and miserable I'd have a far better chance of cheering up if I was drinking vodka martinis and lounging on a rose petal bedecked canopy bed watching some of the most beautiful women in world writhe about on a dance floor.

(Yes, the venue had rose petal bedecked canopy beds as a standard feature).

And then, due to the lack of sleep caused by my stupid-ass brain, my cold was even worse the next morning and so I skipped off work that day as well. This no doubt led to the assumption by my work colleagues that I had gone to the party and had a hideously fantastic and decadent time. I hate my brain.

Posted by YandaMan at May 16, 2004 10:12 PM
Category: Journal