Midlife Crisis?

Hopefully, I am not at midlife yet, but I am definitely having some sort of crisis. At first I thought it was just Restless Ass Syndrome. I get RAS from time to time and generally feel the need to move my ass to a different city, find my ass a new job, or change boyfriends. Sometimes it is simply cured by buying a new pair of pants. Sometimes not.

This, though, is something entirely different.

First of all, I've lost my normal exuberance for Kimday. Yes, I still advertise it the way you'd advertise that girl scout cookies will be for sale in February, but I'm not really into it this year. Last year, there were multiple celebrations in cities across the universe . Now I just feel blah. I guess once Santa comes to your birthday celebration, you've officially jumped the shark. Sigh.

So that's a travesty in and of itself. Then there's the issue of age. Age has never really bothered me because in the past, I've been kept from doing things because I'm too young but never because I was too old. Now I'm being told right and left that I can't do things. I don't even want to do these things, but I still can't. For instance, in every club bathroom, you always see flyers for people who want your eggs. I don't want to sell my eggs, but damnit, if I did want to, I couldn't. Apparently 32 is the cutoff point. If I don't sell my eggs within 24 days, they become null and void. This makes me want to run out and sell an egg, not because I want to but because in 24 days, I can't. I'm like the expired milk in my fridge. See? Crisis!

Then there's the air force. I don't want to join the air force. I'd lose my mind in the air force, but if I don't join within the next 2 years and 24 days, I can't ever join again. This upsets me. I don't know why.

Plus, I've jumped into new categories on surveys. The bastard little things put younger people in smaller categories: 18-21; 21-23; 23-25, etc. Where am I? 30-45. WTF? There is a distinct difference between 30 and 45, thank you very much. Hmph.
And I'm eeking on up there for medical stuff, too. Every commercial tells me that in 2 years and 24 days I'll be at greater risk for blah blah blah. It's like a little band of goblins are released from their cage inside your body when you hit 35, rendering you useless with every blow of their little green hands. In 2 years and 24 days, that will happen to me.

Plus, the number 33--how boring is that. Nothing happens at 33 except that the church killed Jesus, and if I keep working where I'm working much longer, the church might kill me, too.

Plus, in a week and 1 day, I have to run a marathon. What if it breaks open the goblin cage early? I'm so freaked out that I just keep eating junk food--strange junk food that I crave with a passion. Right now, for breakfast, I'm eating fritos and bean dip? WTF? Bean dip? Who eats bean dip? Who eats fritos for that matter? and I'm drinking a vitamin water. Eugh. The bean dip tastes better than that.

And I only ran 8 miles yesterday because we are tapering to save our bodies from exploding. I feel like a truck ran over me today. After running 18 miles, I can dance all night and wake up without a pain, but an 8 mile slacker run/walk did me in? Of course, the bottle of wine and mass quantities of fried food the night before probably didn't help. Still.

So Kimday approacheth, and I'll be in Cali running away from it. Blah.