Gone are the days when it took accidentally bumping your knee or stubbing your toe to remind you that you actually have a body. When you felt like just a couple eyeballs floating on a cloud of perfect health, now replaced with nagging discreet reminders of pulled hamstrings, sore rotator cuffs, recurring coughs, or whatever unique time bomb your genetics is host to, as if whispering, "You're going to die someday..."
In this thirty-something era, men may find themselves more interested in what older men have to say about their prostate. Single women are having self-inquiry marathons with themselves in front of a spiteful mirror.
If you're utilizing that MBA from Harvard, then you understand CEO really means cult leader in disguise, and it's your turn to participate in corrupting the youth for profit. At this point you're obviously not following popular culture, but rather selling it to the next generation of invincible Know-it-alls like you were; hip to the propaganda of what your marketing campaign said is cool. Or it's late at night, and the karma of a misspent youth has you in your underwear basking in the glow of a computer screen Googling college degrees you can earn online.
Well beyond your post traumatic event of Santa Clause doesn't exist. You've discovered the tragic reality that most doctors are kind of weird, ending your childhood notions of doctors being humanitarian prince or princesses sent by god.
You're unsettled with the remote possibility that most politicians might be more brilliant than you, unlike the twenty-something view that all grey haired people are ridiculous idiots. And you summarized human's promiscuous behavior as, if you could reduce time to a single moment, then the workplace would be just one big orgy.
You're no longer disappointed that people are usually vicious if allowed to be, in fact, you're learning how to profit from it. And, if you hear one more time, "God has a plan for you..." you're going to try to sue someone for false advertisement, but you want to believe more than ever. Or you believe God has a plan for you, but you can't figure out what it is. Or you figured it out, but your husband hasn't, which explains the paradox of knowing God's plan and still feeling like shit.
But you can always find peace in knowing blue berries helps to improve memory, coffee helps prevent diabetes, and a glass of red wine may prevent heart disease, but somehow some poor soul somewhere will manage to choke to death on anyone of these. So don't feel picked on.
You probably discovered it's very wise to enjoy all the wonderful memories of when you were fishing at the lake with silly fish hooks twinkling in your hat, or family pictures of that incredible trip to the ocean. Because all too soon, we will be panicking in the milieu of an high pitched beeping operating room, gagging on an oxygen tube under a frantic blur of movement during our emergency care. So pour yourself a shot of Jack, and donate to your favorite charities. These are the thirty-something blues.
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