I turned 27 today.

I don’t think I ever believed that 27 existed. Well, sure I did, but only for old people. That’s how old my mom was when she had me. That means it’s old. And it means that for the rest of my life, I’ll be more than half as old as her.

My Grandpa told me that women don’t truly get interesting until they’re 27. Maybe it’s just something that 27 year old men say because it’s the first time that their declining sex drive has put “looks good in jeans” after “is interesting” on the check list. In fact, I bet that testicles see 27 as the optimal transition into early retirement. Them, and hair follicles, who I’m sure will just start packing up to migrate toward the greener pastures around my nipples and anus (which I imagine to be like Florida and Palm Springs for hair).

27 is the end of the mid-20s. It’s the late 20’s, a time that’s seems to be characterized by being overworked, underpaid, and conflicted between being expected to grow up and wanting to stay young. It’s the year that you go to your 10 year high school reunion and gawk at the hot people that used to get picked on and the fat/bald people that used to pick on them, while trying to figure out which category you fit into because it’s been too long to remember or still care.

27 means that, while I think back to my glory days as a “hockey player”, there are kids being drafted to play in the NHL that weren’t born until I already had pubic hair. It means that I’m still sore after my beer league game 3 days ago because, well, my back just isn’t as strong as it used to be.

I’d write more, but my bladder control isn’t so good. And after I deal with that I need to go trim some rogue ear hairs and refill my Viagra prescription.

I turned 27 today.