I'm Having More Fun Than You Read Online Free Page B

logo on it. I was taken aback. Though they’re handy, isn’t there a cutoff for carrying bottle openers? Junior year, perhaps?
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    I recently found out that my buddy Jesse has a female roommate. And like most guys, my first question was, “So, do you tap that? Is there some sort of schedule? How does it work?” Of course, they don’t hook up. But then I met her for the first time a few days later, and not only is she cute, she’s got Civil War cannons. Now, I’m not positive about many things in life. But I am absolutely sure that I’m not mature enough to have a female roommate. Because I would harass the shit out of her. I would come home drunk, bang on her bedroom door, accuse her of leaving her dishes in the sink, offer to let it slide if she blew me, and then wonder aloud what possible downside there could be to roommates with benefits. Then I’d realize she wasn’t even in her room and, when confronted by her once she actually did get home, have to admit that I urinated on her door because I thought it was the bathroom. And that would be the first night.
    I believe that the real differentiating factor in life—between overgrown adolescents and actual responsible adults—is that adults eat dinner at a real table. They don’t sit hunched over their coffee table shoveling heartburn-inducing food into their mouths as fast as possible like most recent college grads and the rest of the animal kingdom. How do the apes at the zoo eat bananas? Hunched over. The amoebas that emerged from primordial ooze? You couldn’t tell without a microscope, but they were absorbing nutrients hunched over too. For the first time in my life, my current apartment actually has a dinner table where I can sit and eat. Though it’s difficult, I resist the temptation to plop down and eat off the coffee table instead. I interpret this as a sign, albeit subtle, that I’m at least moving in the right direction.
    SPURNING THIRTY
     
    One of the scariest parts about turning thirty is looking back to see if you’ve accomplished anything notable—be it in your personal or professional life—while still in your twenties. I once met a woman a few years older than me at a bar, and we got to talking. She mentioned that before moving to where I live, West Hollywood, she had lived in Malibu for ten years. As she continued, I got distracted because, one, she had enormous fake breasts, and two, I realized that since high school I’ve never lived in the same state for five years, let alone the same city. In that respect, thirtysomethings today are marked by something our predecessors lacked: transience. We are always on the move, which makes it harder to fall into a rut. In other words, thirty isn’t as old as it used to be, so there’s no point in wallowing about spending your twenties half-drunk.
    Lately, I’ve noticed a perplexing trend: people assuming that I’m older than I am. When I ask people to guess, they often think I’m in my mid-thirties. I’d like to chalk it up to my precocious demeanor, but I think it’s just the fact that I rock perpetual stubble. Further complicating matters is that when I’m occasionally clean-shaven, people think I’m only about twenty-three. So basically I have a complex either way. Happy birthday to me.
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    FURTHER ENRICHMENT
     
    A woman’s age means surprisingly less to guys than most people think. At thirty, I get the same kick out of hooking up with a twenty-five-year-old as I do with a thirty-five-year-old. It’s not a woman’s actual age that matters to us, it’s the absolute value of the age difference. A twenty-five-year-old and a thirty-five-year-old hook-up are both five years apart from me and both have distinct but equally appealing attributes—the older chick is more experienced and exotic and the younger chick is more toned and pliable. It’s when the absolute value shrinks that I start to get disinterested. No guy wants to bang a girl exactly his own age. What’s the fun