The Metamorphosis

I don't know how it works for the females of our tender species but when a human male reaches the cusp of age thirty he undergoes a metamorphosis, tossing away his twenties like the loose change in his pocket and transgressing into a realm of thickening girth, slowing metabolism and the blessed beginnings of male-pattern baldness. It's a marvelous sight to behold.

But not all 29ers have the will to leap such a tremendous hurdle. The metamorphosis demands a sound body, a sound mind, and the pretense of maturity. Those who lack these qualities will be stuck as 29ers for all eternity, damned with full heads of hair and the ability to eat pizza and drink beer on weekdays and still wake up feeling refreshed. Woe be them.

My 30th is fast approaching, my metamorphosis is quickening, and it's time to either shit or get off the pot. Understand that the metamorphosis isn't a mere state of mind, and it isn't some freaky, gross cocoon I'd produce by pooping out a bunch of goo. The metamorphosis is a procedure as unique as every male studying his retreating hairline in the mirror.

I've contemplated for many days and nights about my metamorphosis and I now know what I must do:

I must watch Robocop while eating Boston baked beans.

There will be no other sustenance. Only the beans.

I will either turn thirty or die trying.

Wish me luck.