Birthdays, Presidents and Crows Feet

Age.  It’s not really something I think about all that often.  I mean, I usually remember how old I am (though for a time last year I did keep saying I was 39 when I was reallly still 38… for some reason I actually thought I was 39… senility already?) but I don’t really think all that much about it.   That is, until recently. 

You see, my birthday falls on January 20th — inauguration day for those who follow such things.  My mother liked to tell people that the world got both me and Richard Nixon on the same day and we know how the latter turned out.  So, my 40th birthday (a rather large milestone in the first place) also is the day when we, as a nation, finally free ourselves of George Bush and get a new president.  My hopes are that it will be a celebratory day and we’ll have a democrat in office again.   But my 40th birthday is a date many Democrats and Progressives are crossing their fingers for.  But a milestone that I’m a bit squeamish of and one that is looming around the proverbial corner.

Then today I read an article on MSN about aging and it had a slideshow about how celebrities have aged.  Wow… I better start taking much better care of my face because I can’t afford all that plastic surgery.  So now I’m staring at a mirror worrying about crows feet and my 40th birthday.  Great way to spend a day off from work huh?

Television 12-Step

All I have to say for this post is:  I blame the writers strike.  It’s all their fault.

For years I have been able to claim that outside of a few dalliances — a brief fling with “Rock Star: INXS”, and a shameful affair with “Project Runway” — I’ve been pretty faithful in my disdain for the reality tv craze.  I’ve be faithful to my strange assortment of television shows that I covet — generally either involving crimes (CSIs), dysfunctional geniuses (House, Law & Order Criminal Intent), or strangely supernatural entities (The 4400 (RIP), Moonlight, Buffy (RIP), New Amsterdam, Supernatural).  As someone who likes to both write and read fiction I like to lose myself in a good (albeit unrealistic) plot after a long day of work. 

Then came came the damn writers strike.  I seriously didn’t think it would last all that long… I mean a couple weeks, right?  But no… and soon everything I watched was a rerun.  Soon all of the CSI episodes that cable plays at almost every hour of the day were all old to me, and I can only watch so many in a row before I start plotting my own crimes.  So… one evening when I had run out of books to read and was tired of playing on the computer I turned on the television.  And what was on?  What?  I shudder to say it… “American Idol”.  I watched it.  I watched all the ridiculous auditions and said that would be it… it was simply fun to watch the delusions of people (I have a cruel sense of humor, I’m okay with that).  But, saying you’ll only try it once is like saying you’ll only eat one Lays potato chip.  American Idol and Lays bank on the fact that you can’t “eat just one”.  So now I’m hooked.

Not only am I hooked — I am voting.  It took me awhile to actually begin voting, but like any good drug (or potato chip) after awhile your defenses wear down and soon you are out there in the gutter searching for change while wearing nothing but a thong.  Okay… maybe not… but I’ve devolved, I fear, and I’m okay with that.  Both I and my Star-Wars-quoting hubby have begun voting.  Oh I didn’t tell you that when I fell off the reality tv wagon, I pulled the Sci-Fi Spouse down with me?  Ahhh… well one can’t scrounge around in the gutter all alone can one?  He’s watching it too… and voting.  We have only one “horse” in the American Idol race, and should he be voted off we will likely stop watching.  We are David Cook fans.  He is really the main reason I watch the show any more.  I think I may swoon for him before it’s all over.  If he is eliminated I vow to stop watching the show entirely.  The rest of the contestants I really can take or leave, but I do enjoy my David Cook time.

So, in truth my fall into the gutter of reality television can be blamed on both the writers strike (damn writers) and David Cook.  I, certainly, am without any responsibility for my addictions.  Right?