I’m twenty-nine years old. Not all that young but certainly not old either. My manner of dress isn’t exclusively old man-ish–the elderly do not have a monopoly on wool cardigans, tweed jackets or plaid shirts, as any hipster would be inclined to assert in a snooty tone. However, my Pendleton shirts do nothing to contradict the fact that my hobbies lean toward the geriatric.
I garden. I listen to NPR. I use table saws. I sew.
At this point you’re still thinking these may just be the leanings of a hipster. But can I add that I also go fly-fishing? And if I’m not affecting the hobbies and preferences of an octogenarian then I certainly have the physical ailments of one. That’s because at age twenty-nine I suffer from sleep apnea, a condition that is more likely to afflict an obese man on Social Security. Oddly enough, I am neither obese nor on Social Security.
I am a twenty-nine year old geriatric. Let me share my life with you.