Everyday Jon Hill

Changes

If a few years ago you were to tell me that I’d be up at 7:00am on a Saturday, not hungover, and the only thing I wanted to do that day was run 5.2 miles while listening to NPR’s TED Talks, I’d tell you to go die somewhere. 

I do believe people can change. It might take some time, and it has to come from an honest place inside, but it can happen. 

I Turn Thirty Next Year…

“Nah man, we’re just getting old…” - Me about three times a week

I turned 29 last week and it couldn’t have come at a more appropriate time. The night before, my roommate and I yelled at some kids cutting in line at a movie theater and after seeing them again in the theater, referred to them as “the shitheads that cut in front of us,” thereby hopefully instilling a childhood memory about the time some old dude called “Jeff” a shithead at Avengers 1.

My mom recently told me that I’ve been fifty since I was ten, meaning I’ve always had an older mentally. Maybe it was being mature at a young age, or maybe it was because she never saw me be a drunk mess in college, that gave off the sense that I was older than I actually was. Most of the time in high school people assumed I was older than I was, often thinking I was a senior from another school and not just a freshman at the Max Rose party of all parties.

But then recently I actually became older. I can vividly remember the time I nearly hit a kid in my car and yelled, “You stupid kids” and instantly knew that “You” actually meant “Not me,” and that I was on the other side of understanding what it’s like to not have responsibility again (considering I just had to spellcheck “responsibility” might make me reconsider). 

I have wholeheartedly embraced getting older. I think it’s wonderful. All the dumb shit that used to worry me wouldn’t last ten seconds in my new brain. What if I don’t know anyone there? Fuck it, then they won’t know me. What if no one likes me? Fuck em, I know I’ve got great friends that do like me. What if she doesn’t call me back? Fuck her, it wouldn’t have worked out anyway then. Growing older means growing up, which means the little things stay little.

But I’ve noticed that a lot of people I know are having a hard time getting older. They can’t party as hard as they used to, can’t get reckless like they once could, and spend so much time worrying that they are becoming irrelevant. And to these people I have two words for you: Fuck you. That’s right, fuck you for complaining that you are almost thirty. Fuck you for complaining about living. Fuck you for wishing you were dead already. Growing older is a privilege, not a right. You and I do not get any sympathy for almost being thirty. Nick and Kyle and Justin and Joey and so many others didn’t get a chance to be this old. Be grateful you made it. Be grateful you are alive. (Oh, and clean up your car. You’re almost thirty for Christ’s sake) 

So yeah, I’m not going to “have made it” by twenty four like I once dreamed of. I’m not going to be on any 30 Under 30 list (unless my hamburger earmuffs idea really take off!) and occasionally I have to bitch slap these young kids and their handheld 7d’s back into place sometimes, but overall, I’m pretty happy with what I’ve done in these twenty nine years. I’ve taken care of my family when they’ve needed me, I’ve made stuff I’m really proud of, and I’ve got the best friends in the entire world that help and encourage me in every aspect of my life. And you’re saying that I should be upset that I might be lucky enough to do this for another year? Well fuck me then because turning thirty sounds like an awesome reward.