On the Eve of Twenty Eight

So twenty-eight years old. It's heading around the bend. Just like the car with the two little old ladies yesterday driving down a one lane highway the wrong way with cement highway dividers hugging the tiny lane who almost hit me head on. I survived. I have had this weird thing about 27. Now I am no musician, so I'm not part of the 27 club or anything; maybe it's that stupid Katherine Heigl single forever movie revolving around those 27 dresses. Hmmmm. 28 should be better though.

Then reality set in. I went to Chili's the other night with some co-workers and saw something equally amusing and horrifying.



This may very well be as good as it gets. Obviously a man of many interests, I find the dichotomy of the Southern pride married to the misogynistic images of the Playboy Bunny, Slutty Girl Pinups, and the big ole' 69 charming. But I digress. I sit here in my swivel chair and pause. Although covered up for the sake of his privacy (which he doesn't exactly have on his own accord), I notice that he is willing to put himself out there, name, number, address and all. Maybe I should do the same. 28 isn't exactly young, nor is it old. Maybe this Prince Charming has a sticker fetish. Maybe he doesn't realize that he lives in a previous Union state and that the Union won. I mean, Illinois spawned Lincoln and a black President. Hmmmm. Maybe he believes that stars and bars represents to him falling out of a chair and hitting his head dizzy-style while at his local tavern. Maybe he believes that Stars and Bars is the name of a Paris Hilton's memoirs from prison. Belch. If he can crack open a can of PBR and settle into this crazy ride, then so can I. This is the year. 28. Good old 28.