Thirty

I spent a lot of yesterday (my 30th birthday) thinking about my life so far and the choices I've made, the mistakes that have held me back and the rash decisions that have paid off (seldom). It proved to be a mildly depressing exercise but there were a few sparks of gold which made me crack a smile for a few minutes.

While the first 16 or so years were beyond horrible (and not worth repeating here), the 14-odd years after haven't been too bad. But, bizarrely, I seem to be trying to make up for my lost youth by doing it over again, attempting to enjoy myself at any cost or consequence with a naughty 13-year-old-James cackle. Selfish, I know, but I feel I'm owed it. Even now at Thirty I surround myself with items that can only be described as toys. Just looking around my bedroom now I can see a Mr Potato Head, two copies of Altered Beast for the Megadrive, a Saved By The Bell tin lunchbox and a small collection of comic books. I'm 99% sure men my age do not play Street Fighter II on their PCs until the wee hours when they know they have work in the morning; playing it just to hear the sounds that gave such joy as a youth. Frantically hitting fire buttons until the combination of sleep depravation, nostalgia and sad memories make you well up.
Something isn't right.
Why cling onto the past so tightly when I have the means and methods to make a great future for myself? I wish I knew, but I really, really like acting like a child 75% of the time. My only responsibility is working hard when I'm actually there (I really enjoy my work) and paying the rent on time. That's it. That's why I act the Goat on a regular basis. The only life I'm ruining is my own, nobody else is getting harmed. It's all good. I can live with morning-after humiliation, I expect it now. I almost NEED it.

Probably the thing I'm most proud of during my 30 years is giving up smoking. What a dick I was for even starting (at the relatively late age of 18, officially old enough to know better). I found giving up to be quite easy, which was surprising. Even when I've had a bunch of beers I still don't want one. Quite magical.
Not-so-magical is the amount of money I've wasted on them. Earlier at work I did a little mathematics and found out that over 12 years of smoking I've spent £15,600. That can't be right. It simply can't. It can't be justified if it's true. Again, what a dick.

What I'm proud of most about all this is that I did it without using the classic "New Year's Resolution" which all fail apparently. Yes, all.
If I had one of those shits it'd be "My resolution is to hold hands with a girl at some point while talking about the merits of Tony Millionaire and Aesop Rock". But I fear I'm aiming a little too high.

I almost enjoyed writing this, so I reckon I'll do some more soon.