Goodbye, “Jordan Year”
So long 23, Hello Mid-Twentie’s! As many of you may know, today, the 30th of January, is my 24th birthday. Unfortunately for you working folk, I have not been able to successfully convince the general public to declare it a national holiday yet, so if you’re on the East Coast like myself, your likely trekking through this “Winter Squall” as I type this on your commute home from work. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that due to this “squall”, (which is a word I had never heard of prior to today, but apparently describes a short blizzard-like snowstorm) it’s the shittiest day of this year so far. But anyways, enough about the weather, let’s talk about something more important, Me.
Even though I’m only 16 hours into my 24th year, I already feel exponentially wiser, and I realize I’m no-longer the boy I once was. You know your getting old when instead of asking for video games and toys for your birthday you start asking for shit like electric toothbrushes and Valero cards.
With the conclusion of my twenty-third year, I have officially entered the dreaded Limbo that is your Mid-Twenties. A time when people want you to be able to provide for yourself and start acting your age, but you simply cannot, nor do you don’t want to.
Every birthday I like to reminisce on what the previous one consisted of. This time last year I was just wrapping up a month of living in Europe like a King, galavanting throughout the historic continent, from the streets of Madrid to the finest of brothels of Amsterdam. Then, when I returned back to New York, everyone told me about how exciting my 23rd year would be going forward. A Wiseman even promised “it’s your Jordan-year bro“.
After a couple miserable months of commuting to the city for an unpaid internship and wondering why I hadn’t yet become a famous cult leader or some form of celebrity (like I thought I would be by this age), it dawned on me.. Michael Jordan was a piece of shit, and Blink-182 was right “Nobody likes you when you’re 23.” In the end, my “Jordan year” was just as shitty as MJ himself was at gambling.
Thankfully, the miserable age that was 23 is now over, and today starts the beginning of a bigger, better, and more exciting adventure.. “my Kobe year”. And for those unathletic nerds reading this who aren’t understanding these references, MJ wore #23 and Kobe garnished the #24. Similar to Kobe, this year will likely just result in a receding hairline and a sexual assault charge, but if you just shave your head and embrace the role of being a complete sociopath, the public will eventually forget all about both. Hopefully, when all’s said and done, I’ll be able to walk away a champion and Oscar-winner like Mr. Bryant, but I’m not banking on it.