I kid. Thursday, April 22nd came and went with scarcely a hint that there was any unusual significance there. Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve had two solid years of simultaneous home-ownership, financial woes, and hair loss now? Whatever the reason, I long ago understood, and became ok with, the fact that I am a grown-up. Therefore: I might as well be 30.

There was but one occurrence that made me ponder this new stage in my life. This is most certainly going to plunge us into the realm of “too much information” but we are going there because I am now an old man and you will listen to me talk about my body in all its disgusting detail! Mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

(Deep breath) here we go: you know those flappy, semi-wartish-type things that predominantly 50-plus folks get, mostly on their eyelids? The Monday after my birthday, I discovered that I’d grown one of those…in an extremely private place. Specifically, in a relatively-easily-accessible and forward-facing sector of an extremely private place, that would be virtually impossible for me not to glance at every single time I went to the bathroom.

My initial reaction, upon determining what was going on, was surprise. I had no idea those sprang up down there as you started to age, but then again, how widely-available would knowledge of such an intrinsically gross nature be? Then there was a brief period of acknowledgment that, wow, turning 30 really did mean that I was getting old. Then it was time to determine what to do about it. Haven’t we all wanted, at one time or another, to hone in on an elderly person’s eyelids and just de-tab them, with a pair of nail clippers, once and for all? Taking into account where this particular tab was, how long would you assume that I weighed that option? If your guess was over 1.5 seconds you are not, and have never been, male. In contrast, I chose a solution that was uber-male: I chose to believe that my disfigurement was temporary and that it would quickly go away on its own.

Four days later everything looked exactly the same and I had had it. I had to bring in a third-party and, being married, the third party to call on was obvious. Bringing in someone who you are presumably monogamous with to examine strange growths on the body part in question is a delicate matter. You must trust that person to trust you. And you must trust that the person trusts your trust in them. And you must have a powerful flashlight. LEDs are the way to go.

Here, devoid of any color commentary, is the conversation Steph and I had when I broke down and had her take a look:

Me: (Ahem) Ok…so…check this out! I promise that nothing out of the ordinary has been going on! I just turned 30 and bam! I am old enough to have a disgusting flappy-mole here!

Steph: Um…that is a weird color for one of those to be. I do not think that is what that is.

Me: Sure it is! Sometimes they are weird colors.

Steph : Hold on. (Coming back with the flashlight.) Your weird colored-mole is hiding some legs from you. Yep, that’s a tick. Hold on. (Coming back with tweezers.) There, it’s gone.

So yeah, it was a tick. I’ve had ticks before, just never ones that looked as much like a common-skin-growth as him and never there, so he caught me off-guard. And to his credit, he was causing no pain or irritation, and he couldn’t have picked a better time to climb aboard. Of course, he came off really easy, so I’m not sure if he was even properly attached…. Honestly, I’m kind of confused about what to think about it all.

Anyway, in conclusion:

1.) If you spend a lot of time outdoors, just assume anything on your body that you can’t identify is a tick.

2.) I am thankful that “burning them off with a lighter” is no longer the preferred method of tick-extraction.

3.) One of the less-frequently-mentioned upsides to being married: free awkward anatomical examinations.

And finally:

Maybe sometimes our troubles really aren’t just that we’re getting old.

I don’t have much exciting to report. I live in Raleigh. Most days I just go to work and then come home. I write silly things like this. Sometimes I watch movies — stupid action flicks almost all of the time. Oh, I’ve spent so much time just playing the guitar that I now have arthritis and carpal tunnel syndrome! I guess that’s what happens when you spend so much uninterrupted time playing the guitar.

One instrument I don’t play is the ukulele. My sister does, and I’d like to learn at some point, but no one’s ever given me one.

I don’t draw that much. I used to love to, but now it’s just frustrating because my skills haven’t improved since my first few art classes in college. If someone had encouraged me to pursue it more seriously I would have. Sometimes I think I really missed out there.

College, by the way, wasn’t the highlight of my life so far.

So, I didn’t marry you three years ago, but maybe I wish I had. Almost all of my friends are married. I have a few really good friends. I could stand a few more, but it’s harder to meet people on your own, don’t you think? I need some sort of cute counterpart that puts people at ease. Maybe if I got a dog? Right now, I don’t have one.

I haven’t traveled much. Doing it alone is daunting for me.

Money isn’t tight for me. Nothing much for me to put it towards. I do buy way more tools than I realistically need. I mean, way way more tools than I realistically need. Like say there were a guy who owned a house and had a few things to fix and tended to pick up two or three extraneous things whenever he went to the hardware store…I’m twice as bad as him.

I don’t own a house. I live in an apartment that is decorated in an “industrial” style. You know, big wooden wire spools as coffee tables, that sort of thing. Not much color or pattern in the place. And my dishes are always dirty.

I don’t drive a truck or anything cool like that. Just this ’88 Chevy Nova with a dented front fender, as I don’t know anyone whose father owns a body shop.

I don’t garden.

I have these certain thoughts and ideas and dreams that I can’t talk to anyone about. I’m almost embarrassed by how foolish they seem. Yet when I think about how I’m the only one who knows them, I get so worried. Those things are a part of who I am. If I forget them somewhere along the way, I don’t have anyone to remind me.

I didn’t marry you three years ago, and I don’t know what it’s like to look at someone and feel cared for and inspired, and to feel happy for at least a few minutes, every single day.