| It’s
a long-standing tradition inside my brain to become overly
excited about my birthday. A lot of people seem to lose this
tendency toward the end of their teenage years, but I’ve
somehow held on to the idea of fun parties, lots of celebration,
and the inherent increase in material possessions that comes
with each passing of my natal day. So every spring, my mind
starts to throw glances at the beginning of June, delighting
at the sight of my birthday on the horizon. The other day,
however, one of those casual glances turned into a long hard
stare at what will be twenty-five candles on the cake. (For
those of you over the age of thirty, this is your cue to roll
your eyes and make comments of mock sympathy -- this has been
the average reaction thus far.) But it’s twenty-five.
It’s a big deal to someone who’s still looking
at it from the lower end. Twenty-five’s an important
number.
This
really isn’t about turning twenty-five.
When
you deal with landmark ages -- sixteen arguably being the
first -- one’s brain starts to display symptoms of pre-programmed
responses. In the case of twenty-five, you’re really
starting to feel like you’re not a young adult anymore.
You seem to get tired a lot more easily, perhaps. Teenagers
seem to get more unreasonable in their attitudes, behavior,
and taste in music. You start looking a little longer at things
like your beer-conditioned midsection and hairlines that seem
to be retreating faster than a cast of Monty Pythons when
faced with a killer rabbit.
This
isn’t about hairlines, either -- although isn’t
it also about time to come to terms with the genetic cards
that have been dealt?
This
piece is about certain phases that people go through at certain
ages. It seemed to be a good time to bring it up because I’m
going though one of those phases right now -- and it strikes
me as both sad and amusing. Much in the way that a middle-aged
fellow would feel compelled to go out and buy a sports car
to try and recapture his youth, I’m dealing with wanting
to recapture a missing part of my earlier years, time that’s
now just slipped out of my grasp. I want to be a skateboarder.
A really cool skater, at that -- a reckless, public nuisance
of a thrasher, complete with an insane thrill-seeking spirit,
high tolerance for bailing, and a really nice pair of Vans
shoes.
 If
my view of the situation is correct, it is my generation --
the children of the ‘80s -- that really broke open skateboarding
as an outlet and sport, one that has since been developed
into an art form by those damn ‘90s kids. Hell, after
seeing Back to the Future when it came out in 1985, I went
nuts about getting a board – my fond desire was to be
just like Michael J. Fox and do cool tricks while outwitting
the bad guys. At some point, I managed to talk my mom into
getting me one, and I even tried to learn to ride it. The
big problem with the whole thing was that our house had a
gravel driveway and was in a rural area. Not exactly a great
place to learn even the basics of skating, when you can’t
get a surface to roll on and you don’t really want to
grind on a nearby fence, because chances are good that it’s
electrified to keep the cattle from running off. Other problems
encountered were my lack of coordination and my deeply rooted
fear of causing myself great pain brought on by an unplanned
meeting of skull with ground. (This was, of course, before
the suburban nation quite rightly went bonkers over the joys
of protective gear.) So my skateboarding phase quickly passed
and I found an alternative method of being incredibly cool
and edgy, which was collecting comic books.
With
twenty-five lurking over the horizon, though, my brain is
obviously making last-ditch efforts to reclaim something I
apparently missed in my youth. I visited a few websites, got
some gear and clothing, and now in my off-hours I’m
obsessed with things like trying to pull off a 540-degree
cannonball, doing nosegrinds and tail slides, and wearing
t-shirts representing some of the coolest board companies
in the sport today, like World Industries and Hook-Ups.
Amazingly
sad, yes – but now I’ll tell you the really sad
part.
All
the skating is taking place on a Nintendo GameCube. (The Tony
Hawk Pro-Skater games specifically, which totally rule.) In
a manner perhaps becoming far too commonplace in today’s
society, I’ve become obsessed over something that can
be done in real life, but is much more easily accomplished
by sitting in front of a TV or a computer. Looking back, I’ve
already probably spent about 30-40 hours of my life glued
to the screen, contacts drying from lack of blinking. I wasn’t
kidding about sporting some skate company gear, though --
I wear it while sitting on the couch. I’m a total poser.
So
now we’ve got a slightly overweight, almost-twenty-five-year-old
guy obsessed with video game skateboarding. That’s about
as pathetic as it gets, right?
Wrong!
My roommate’s the one with the GameCube. It’s
his game, and I’ve not logged a single hour playing
it. I sit on the couch and watch my buddy work his way through
it, because it’s really entertaining. I’ve proclaimed
myself as his “coach” and I give him encouraging
advice and analysis as I watch him skate in the game. I also
scream profanity-laden reprimands at him when he screws up,
which might be the most enjoyable part when you get right
down to it.
So,
let’s sum all of this up: In response to turning twenty-five
soon, I’ve somehow transformed into this guy who sits
on the couch wearing skateboarding t-shirts, drinking beer
(I probably forgot to mention that earlier), and berating
my roommate for badly playing a game that I personally have
never bothered to put into the machine.
Nice.
I’m glad to see I’m becoming a mature, thoughtful
person as I age.
You’ll
now have to excuse me -- as I’ve been writing this last
bit, the sound of the game’s intro music has been coming
from the living room. I think it’s time that I go and
offer my support. |
