Evolution.

This morning, I was perusing through Creative Loafing, looking for cool things to do this month here in the N.C. There were the usual small bands playing at small bars. Support groups. Opera. Theater. A parkour group. Then this listing caught my eye:

North Carolina Naturists!
Celebrating more than 20 years of family-oriented, clothing-optional recreational activities. Call for more info.

My mind began to race--what, pray tell, is a naturist? Well. "At The Naturist Society, we have members who are deeply committed to naturism, and view it as a defining idea of their lives. And we have members who don't give the philosophical side of naturism much thought. They just know that not wearing clothes often feels better and makes more sense than wearing them." (From "The Naturist Society", emphasis added.)

Glory be! There is a TERM for what my children are! Naturists!! (Not to be confused with naturalists, people. Very different.) Not only do my children have a genus and species, but they even have an official club for them! The ultimate opportunity to rub shoulders, so to speak, with their own kind.

I wonder if it's frowned upon for parents to drop their naturist progeny off for the "recreational activity" and head for the nearest clothing mandatory restaurant... hm.

Although, if they offer a special lecture series on "Chafing: Don't Let it Rub You the Wrong Way" then I could consider recreating along with them. Especially if they offer gluten free spelt or oat groats for refreshments...

Turning 30...

Something terrible has happened.

I have turned 30.

I don't know when it happened. I don't think it was on my birthday in October, because I didn't feel any different than I had the day before. When I was 29. So it must've crept up on me since then. Slowly. Like a haircut that grows out and you suddenly realize the truth: you have a fe-mullet.

That's how it feels to realize that you're 30. And it's about that cool, too. (Let's pause for a moment to consider Kristen Stewart's fe-mullet, shall we? I mean, she isn't even 30. And has millions of dollars. So there is only one explanation: Robert Pattinson is rubbing off on her. )

But back to me and my oldness.

I have lots of proof of my coming of age. For example, I have started washing my grapes. I can't even snatch a handful straight out of the bag without rinsing them in the sink, and I shudder just thinking about rat hairs (an average of 3 per bag of grapes) and grape harvesters going straight from Port-a-Potty to vine. Gross.

I never used to care. I used to just blissfully toss grapes in my mouth, tra la, as I put the groceries in the car. They looked clean to me, thanks. But now that I'm 30, I can't do that anymore.

Also, my car. It was made when I was 16 years old. That does not bespeak youth, my friends. Because "youth" drive cars that either a) bought by their parents or b) are so stinkin' old that they're retro and cool again. I know. Because when I was in high school I had the privilege of inheriting my brothers/grandmother's gold Dodge Colt hatchback. It was a fabulous stick shift that screamed "I'm too young to care! Bwahahah!" As a bonus feature, when you turned it off, it would turn back on again. Like Herbie. You literally had to kill it as you pulled into a parking space. It was the coolest car in the history of the world.


(RIP, 1980 Dodge Colt.)

My current car has none of the above qualities. Sometimes I have a certain impoverished pride in it. Like it's my own version of thumbing the powers that be and all their minions in pristine, new minivans and Honda Pilots all around me. That I am superior from them, in my bumblebee of a minivan. But in truth, I'm sure that it tells them exactly this: "I'm 30 and I don't care."

Other evidence:
I'm suddenly obsessed about putting eye cream around my eyes to avoid the "signs of aging."
I will no longer eat dough that has raw eggs in it. Yech.
I find myself saying "Why is it so COLD in here?" all the time.
All fast food suddenly tastes like grease. I could swear that some of it, at least, used to taste good.
And finally--I have started actually, truly, trying to be frugal. And by frugal I mean "Oh dear! One more day until payday, and we're completely out of food! Oh well, I'm sure I can defrost this unrecognizable meat and toss it in a pot with this limp celery and make a fantastic soup. Ohhh...and while the fridge is empty, I can give it a thorough scrubbing! Bliss!!"

It is official. I am old.

Realistically Speaking...

I love New Year's Resolutions.

I get into the whole spirit of the thing, complete with a topic and themes and divisions.

But I'm thinking this year, the theme should be "Keeping it Real" and my resolutions would go something like this:

Spiritually:
Go to church.
Don't eat all the kid's fruit snacks, while at church.
Judge more.

Physically:
Consume your own weight in aspartame.
Be the same weight next year as you are right now.
Don't have to buy clothes in the next size up.

Mentally/Emotionally:
Read more books for avoid housework.
Find even more methods of escapism.
Avoid people.

Wife and Mother:
Make sure the TV is on by no later than 7:30 am.
Save the planet--use febreze rather than actually doing laundry.
Spend every penny of the Spouse's hard earned money.

*smug grin* I'm pretty sure I could follow through on THOSE resolutions. My. What a thrill that would be. (Ok. Fine. Real ones are in the works.)