Birthdays are a reminder, not that we are getting older, but that we are growing farther away from the expulsion from our mother’s uterus and other unmentionables. There are some days I just want to get back in there. Wait… no… not in my mother’s quivering mound of love pudding, but rather go back to the simplicity of when we were just born and everything was done for us. Nothing makes a birthday more sobering than responsibility. All the things we have to be doing and need to do for our life to go on. I’ll tell you what helps make a birthday better.
Cake. Ice Cream cake to be exact.
DO NOT waste my time with funfetti, angel food, red velvet and or anything of the like. Do not even look at me if you want fresh fruit involved in a birthday cake. It better be frozen and filled with those chocolate-crunchies separating two separate, but equally important layers of delicious, creamy ice cream. If it was up to me, my wedding cake would’ve been 12 Fudgie the Whales artfully tiered on one another. Some Fudgies would have had on a tuxedo while others a veiled wedding dress. It would have been breathtakingly beautiful.
I’m turning 29 and while I’m happily in love, I’m not totally in love with how my time is spent. Jesus had it right; he waited until he was 30 before taking on responsibility. Then again, he only lived to 33½ and was allegedly in much better shape than I. Of course, he was nailed to a cross and while I may not always be the most popular guy around, I don’t necessarily see myself stirring the pot for things to go that far. Christ was just gangsta like that. So maybe I have only 4½ years left, maybe not. Considering the way I eat and remain sedentary, 4½ years really wouldn’t be so bad. But what have I done with my time?
We all waste so much time working and providing for ourselves and family that we lose out. Or are we working so we don’t lose out? Either way, I want to have a life-fulfilling adventure.
I want to find a town like in Footloose and teach them how to dance and not be afraid of change.
I want to attempt a legitimate food challenge and stuff myself beyond the point of exploding with vomit (I’ve come close with beefsteak).
I want to run for political office and make promises I have no intention of keeping.
I want to defend a small third-world nation’s water supply and defeat a horrible flesh-eating illness by wearing a plastic bracelet and a ribbon.
I want to honk because 1. I am horny, 2. Jesus is my Co-pilot, 3. I hate reading bumper stickers, 4. I want to see your middle finger.
I want to drive cross-country and eat at every greasy spoon I come across.
I want to run with the Polar Bears and jump into a 35 degree ocean.
I want to climb a mountain… well… I want to fly to the top of a mountain and take picture on top of that mountain in full climbing gear and tell people I climbed that mountain.
I want to have sex with a midget. Sorry, that was not correct. I want to have sex with a little person. Unfortunately, my time frame has already closed on that one (love you my beautiful wife!).
Now I know what you’re thinking: What if my wife loses her legs, would that count? No, it would not. I now want to have sex with a legless woman in a wheel chair. I want to avoid hell.
Maybe I should just be happy with my ice cream cake….
Happy birthday to me. Born February 27, 1982. On February 27, 2011, at 1 pm. I am taking the Original Coney Island Polar Bear Plunge [EDITOR’S NOTE: Kevin submitted this piece before his plunge. We at Unwinnable are happy to report that he is OK, if a little chillier than usual].