A few months back I turned 35. That’s right, I’m no longer a viable consumer. Goodbye, 18-34 target-audience bracket. No longer will movies be made with my demographic in mind, nor will books be written that cater to my post-modern sensibilities.
Actually, turning 35 wasn’t a big deal–just like 30 wasn’t a big deal. But I have started to notice a thing or eight that didn’t seem to be “issues” before.
Case in point: my last family vacation. We took a trip to Hershey. And we did it like the high rollers we aren’t. We stayed in the famed Hershey Hotel–it took me a week or so to stop giggling when I read those words, too. Sneaking a poop joke past me is a tall order. But I had no option but to put aside my puerile observational humor as soon as we hit the lobby–just, wow. Simple, elegant, and chocolaty.
I hit the awesome gym, with its monogrammed towels and premium cable at every tredmill and elliptical machine. And my pace was pretty kick ass–rarefied air and all that I guess. So my 35 years weren’t a bother as far as my speed was concerned.
I was rather pleased with myself. I even thought I’d give the roller coasters at Hershey Park a go after my son conked out. Well, I was about 12 seconds into my first ride when Father Time sucker punched me.
To be continued…