If you were curious to know what I did for my 30th birthday last week, I would be happy to tell you, although you may find the answer disappointing.
On my birthday, I took three naps. Presumably one for each decade I survived. In between the naps, I had a picnic, watched a couple of episodes of "Curious George" and pulled my groin. The latter two items are completely unrelated.
As far as wild party time festivities are concerned, I managed to ingest a single shot of tequila (hooray for the requisite birthday booze!), which led directly to the second of three naps — and, incidentally, the pulled groin.
Here's a riddle: If a man pulls his groin in the woods, and there's no one around to see it happen, who is going to nag him into taking ibuprofen?
And furthermore, how precisely did I pull my groin? What's that you say? You don't want to know? Well, OK, better to leave that to your imagination anyway. Less being more and all.
About the only time I regret my decision not to take up Greco-Roman wrestling in high school is when I try to clip my daughter's toenails or brush her teeth. She is a fierce competitor and currently uses a no-holds-barred toddler sparring style that is virtually impossible to defend against. A working knowledge of sleeper holds would have been helpful.
At one of her recent checkups, I made an effort to warn the nurse beforehand.
"Just a word to the wise: She is, uh, extremely willful."
"Oh, ha-ha-ha. Aren't they all?"
Two minutes later, after being robbed of her respiratory functions by an unblocked windmill kick to her midsection, the nurse gasped:
"She. Is. STRONG."
"Aye. She has Viking in her blood."
My daughter is not even 2 yet, and she can already do a lot of stuff. I feel like I could not do as much stuff when I was her age. At this time last year, my daughter was a chunky bobble-head with flailing limbs, but now she can count to 20, read her ABCs, jump, crawl, run, head-butt and boss me around. (She recently adding finger-pointing as an accent to her ever popular catchphrase "No, Dada, you stoppa now.")
Her rapid evolution has motivated me to step up my game as a human being. This decision came after reflecting on 2012 and realizing the only thing I managed to add to my wheelhouse was a couple of dance moves from the "Gangnam Style" video.
My 30s are going to be all about the big ideas, about doing what I can to change the world for the better:
— Several weeks ago, I talked about my vision for Booze Chips: the potato chip that gets you drunk. I am still awaiting investors (my email can be located at the end of this column) and for science to catch up to my ambitions.
In the meantime, I'd like to introduce a healthy new product designed to balance out Booze Chips' potentially double-negative impact on mankind (high blood pressure coupled with alcoholism) ... so prepare to whet your appetite with Colon Chips, the delicious potato chips with powdered fiber sprinkled into the flavorings. Eat all the chips you want and stay regular, unlike the current trend of low-fat chips that feature Olestra — a fat substitute whose known side effects include "anal leakage" (true story!), which is exactly the kind of regular you don't want to be.
As Olestra is a fat substitute apparently derived from a sampler box of Jose Ole appetizers and it's still on the market, I don't see why Colon Chips would have a problem turning a profit. They could give Jamie Lee Curtis and her yogurt a run for their money.
— Also on the menu of big ideas for my 30s: I want to start a religion and name it Scientology 2.
It will be the sequel to original scientology; only it will be bigger and badder in every conceivable way. Bigger celebrities. Crazier religious texts. More expensive religious counseling sessions.
— And, since the revelation that the NSA has been spying on everybody's cellphones, I have really been trying to increase the amount of racy text messages I send. I want to give those analysts something juicy to read; they must be so bored sorting through 6 billion "LOLs" and winky smiley faces every day.
My wife asked that I stop sending the racy texts to her, so I now forward indecipherable pictures of blurry body parts to random phone numbers.
The law of averages says you should expect one in your in box soon. You're welcome in advance.
Ryan Jackson wrote this on a deadline, and he can be reached at email@example.com.