Thirty-one

Yesterday I turned thirty-one. Loved ones gave me lunch and supper; on Facebook, the commentators were effusive. So I’ve no complaints.

But the previous day, Sunday, was the spectacular one. I played soccer for the first time in a month. I ran tirelessly and scored five golazos. (So what if most of my opponents were approx. twelve years old.)

Meanwhile, in Ecuador, Barcelona were thrashing Emelec, 5 to 0. This is the year we’ll end our title drought.

Some thoughts about turning thirty-one:

(i) My experience is vast.

(ii) I wish I owned more books. I don’t own as many as my parents did at thirty-one. The other day, my brother Stephen told me in all seriousness, “John-Paul, you really don’t own very many books.”

(iii) I look younger than I did last year. Or, at least, more youthful.

(iv) I’m as idealistic as ever. (This is evident from my recent blog posts.) Barring some Phineas Gage disaster or weird chemical influence, that quality will never, ever change.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Kenny wants me to tell you that his Xanga is currently unavailable because he’s hiding. He’s been offered a new job, and wants to appear squeaky-clean on the Internet for a while.

Kenny, I love you, but we are not alike. I will never try to appear squeaky-clean.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I wish I could trust someone who wanted to be President of the United States.

[Kelly Oxford]