OUR WORLD:
There aren’t many things more annoying than hearing someone younger than you say, “OMG, I’m so old!” I know this, and I want you to know that before reading the following…If you’re older than I am, this ‘Our World’ has the potential to make you hate me (are you a fucking agist, Jimmy?!?!) Don’t worry, I’m not an agist (unless…you’re younger than me). But, after some exhaustive research over the past 34 years, I have come up with the Top 3 “whoa, I’m really an adult now”-moments.
Working Out in the Hotel Gym on a Trip
(Wait, isn’t this just your way of telling us that you just did this on your trip to Portland, Maine?) Did I mention I worked out in the hotel gym MULTIPLE TIMES during my trip to Portland? (SONOFABITCH!!!) Remember when hotel stays, whether for work or vacation, meant that calories didn’t count and exercise wasn’t even an option? Everyone under the age of 32 abides by the rule where if you’re out of town, you don’t have to work out. It’s my favorite kind of rule; clean, with little room for confusion–like “if you’re standing while eating, it doesn’t count.”
But then you reach a certain age (let me guess, 34?) and a lot of your pants are getting REALLY FUCKING TIGHT FOR NO GOOD REASON OTHER THAN YOU’VE BEEN EATING LIKE SHIT AND NOT WORKING OUT LATELY, and you go “shit, I think calories count even when I’m out of town.” Hotel gyms are depressing little rooms with way too many mirrors, and only a few machines, so you’re going to feel like you’re on a shame stage. It’s as if the hotel gym architects were like, “how can we instill as much shame as possible on people who are, otherwise, in the middle of treating their bodies like a dumpster? I know! More mirrors and less machines!”
There is a silver lining, here, though. The hotel workout counts for 2.7 times more than a workout at home. (Seriously?) I’m not even fucking exaggerating, guys. Thus, if you walk 2 miles on a treadmill at a hotel gym, it’s the same as running 5.4 miles (did he just do that math in his head?!?!) Screw a silver lining, that line is gold babayyyy!!! Why? Because the more viable excuses there are to not work out, the more calories are burned. And fighting through excuses is the top qualification for “being an adult.” So after that uphill walk on the treadmill (can’t run because of the ankle/knee/hip) make sure you walk through the lobby showing off your sweaty t-shirt to all the children.
Being more excited about morning coffee than night drinks on the weekends
You still won’t admit it, but I know. You’re not “just tired.” The reason you’re not ordering another drink with your now-more-fun-than-you friend is because you know that drink puts your Saturday morning coffee trip into jeopardy. All you’re thinking about is “jesus, the next drink guarantees a meaningful hangover, doesn’t it? DOES IT? WILL SOMEBODY TELL ME IF THIS DRINK IS THE ONE THAT CAUSES THE DIZZYING HEADACHE TOMORROW MORNING?!?!” Next thing you know, your friends are asking why you’re holding your arms out and screaming “GIMME A SIGN!” into the cool, night sky.
What you’re doing, though, is trying to make sure that you squeeze every second of I’m-off-work enjoyment out of your weekend, though. THAT is adult; knowing that all a crippling hangover does is ruin precious not-at-work time that is meant to be spent doing things other than asking your wife “why didn’t we get Gatorades last night?”
What you should be doing is getting up and taking the doggo to the coffee place with the baked TREATS! and people wearing cooler clothes than you. Eventually, you’ll be one of the people showing up in workout gear, having just got out of some class taught by a woman in her 50s who is FUCKING RIPPED, but let’s just take it step by step. First step is being there not hungover, and wearing something other than sweatpants and the t-shirt you slept in. Guess what? You’re wearing jeans AND A NOT-THAT-WRINKLED GOLF SHIRT!!! (Standing applause?!?! Y’all are too much!!!)
Now listen close, how do you tell that you’re in the right kind of coffee shop to maximize Saturday morning enjoyment? The more unwelcome you feel, the better the coffee and TREATS! are going to be. The air inside the shop smells not just like coffee and bread, but THE BEST COFFEE AND BREAD. The trade off is that the people who work there aren’t going to like you. Big stinking deal is what I say! I wouldn’t like a decently dressed adult getting to enjoy a lovely, not-hungover Saturday morning while I was busy getting berated by my boss for not perfecting my “flower design thingy” on top of the lattes I was serving.
Listening to the music your parents listened to and saying things like, “I can’t believe I used to complain when they’d put this on.”
It doesn’t make much sense that at the same age you realize that you were a dick as a kid, that you’re simultaneously making the decision that you would like a kid of your own. 34 is right about the age where you start really listening to the music your parents played when you were a snot-nosed little bitch in the backseat of their car. In between eating your boogers, you’d barf out “this song stinks!” or “ughhhhhh, no more country!” while your parents just shook their heads. How my parents never barked something back like, “until you stop shitting your pants on a semi-regular basis, shut the fuck up!” is amazing to me. But kids are dicks, and the time when you realize this THE MOST is when you’re 34, sitting in the backseat of a car and a song from The Eagles comes on and you think, “this song is fucking awesome, and I can’t believe I ever criticized my parents for liking it.” (To everyone saying “the Eagles suck,” I’d ask you to really examine if you actually think that…or, if you just love “The Big Lebowski” so much that you feel compelled to say that whenever hearing The Eagles.)
I remember hating The Eagles, country music, Jackson Browne, Fleetwood Mac, and, GOD I WAS SUCH A DICK AS A KID! That music is so good! Maybe all kids are just undercover hipsters who think that saying they don’t like something that those closest to them like will make them seem “different”? Or, maybe kids are just selfish people who think that their decisions are better than people who have been making decisions for far longer than they have because…their brains are small? Whatever the reason, they’re just not nice! And the time that this really crystalizes comes around the same time you’re telling you’re wife that you “think it’s time”. “Now that I know for a fact that kids are a-holes, I’d like to add another to the population.” HOW DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?!?!
But maybe that’s just it: the time you know that you’re ready for a kid comes at the exact time that you’re adult enough to realize that you were a jerk as a kid for not liking your parents’ music. So, try this: if you’re thinking that you may be ready to bring a tiny jerk into the world, put on that band/artist that your parents used to listen to ALL THE TIME when you were young. If you put it on, and you still think the music sucks, guess what? Still not ready for a kid. But, if you put it on and immediately feel guilty for heckling the people who paid for your entire life, then you’re ready to be a parent. We’ll call this the “Jimmyschair Parent Test” and I would patent it if I knew how to do that and thought it could actually end up becoming profitable.
MY WORLD:
The VP and I are moving tomorrow and…well, things are stressful in Casa De La Chair. Last night we got mad at each other for no real good reason, but we’re still kinda’ not talking to each other because neither of us want to give in and admit that they were wrong. Do I think I was wrong? Yeah, duh, I know I was wrong. BUT! I’ve been taking a lot of “L’s” lately and so, I’m just not in the mood to willfully accept another right now.
What will probably happen is I’ll get home after work tonight, pretend like we’re totally fine and then notice that The VP isn’t making eye contact with me. She won’t give me the TOTAL silent treatment, but her answers will be short and the jokes will be forced. If I make a joke, she’ll pretend not to hear it because laughing = saying we’re “okay”. So it’ll get tense, but I’ll tell myself to hold off just a bit longer until SHE’S the one to break. But then I’ll make a FAT cocktail (fancy boiiiiii) get deep into it and really start to miss feeling like the person I live with doesn’t hate me.
Then I’ll break, admit that I was wrong, have to nod through her reliving the blow by blow account of EXACTLY when I went wrong, and then…get kinda’ mad but stifle it and remind her of the things that “weren’t the best.” This whole “trying to save face” exercise for the both of us will go on for no less than 16 minutes.
Happy Friday!
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Moving. It’s the fucking worst.
LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
The post-move drink. It’s a top 5er.
JIMMY GAMBLES:
I think I’m done until football season…WHICH IS FAST APPROACHING!
Jimmy's Chair 