I don’t mind getting old. I just don’t want to be there when it happens.*

It finally happened, the moment I didn’t imagine would come for at least another decade-and-a-half:

A REGISTRATION LETTER FROM THE AMERICAN ASSOCIATION OF RETIRED PERSONS:

Click to enlarge

Eighteen years before I’m eligible, the AARP sent me the letter above last week indicating that the geriatric non-profit’s records show I haven’t registered for its membership benefits “even though [I am] fully eligible”. I even got a snazzy little card for my wallet.

Fully eligible? At 32 years of age?

I showed the letter to The Princess hoping for compassion and a suitable form of sympathetic outrage. She laughed maniacally and called me an old man.

I sat in my living room for several minutes looking over this letter, wondering if my best years were behind me. I felt sad and forlorn wondering how the AARP could think I would want “the resources and information [I] need to get the most out of life over 50”.

Then I realized something that was both disturbing and liberating: I already act like an old man!

I compiled a list of ways I have already outstripped my corporeal age and decided that waiting to join the AARP in my golden years would only be a waste of time (and benefits):

• I hate “kids today” and have vowed to keep any Frisbees, baseballs, or tennis balls thrown into my yard
• I like to hike up my pants to above my belly button, much to The Princess’ embarrassment, because it feels more comfortable
• I do an awesome impression of Jimmy Stewart
• I fully enjoy buffets
• I drive too fast on the Beltway and too slow on small, suburban streets
• I can’t hear people anymore and punctuate a typical conversation with the cupping of my ear and shouts of “What??!!”
• I forget little things like where the toothpaste is and what cheese looks like
• I find TV commercials about furniture interesting
• I accuse fictional people of “messing with my stuff”
• I’m looking forward to dementia and The Princess thinks it will be a seamless transition for me

Yes, AARP CEO William D. Novelli, on second thought, I WILL join your organization and reap the rewards of membership! Obviously, judging from my list above, I qualify.

Now if I could only find my cane.

*I’m paraphrasing a classic Woody Allen quote from his book Without Feathers.

Alarm clock didn’t go off. Trains were slow. Passengers were rude. Early meetings were scheduled.

I hope my day ends better than this guy’s:

Click to enlarge. Via Yadogg.

I’ve got a I have to own up to. I love .

These simple, undemanding, even-a-caveman-could-play-them online games created by the Internet travel company are as addicting as blogs, Gene Weingarten’s , and fantasy baseball.

They were created by Orbitz in 2005 to promote its travel service. Apparently, it’s had an effect on me since I’ve used it to buy airline tickets at least a half dozen times that I remember.

Some of these games are downright ridiculous. In , for example, you are supposed to toss a “family member” down an icy street and maneuver him onto a circle where you are awarded points. I like it better when it was called curling.

In another game, , you have to jump on a trampoline and dunk a basketball. This takes the brain power of a potato.

Here are my top five favorite Orbitz games:

When I went on a cruise with my Papi, Hermanita, and Hermano, my favorite part was playing shuffleboard. I, of course, beat my brother every time, which made him cry like a friggin’ schoolgirl. This Orbitz Shuffleboard might be the most challenging of the Orbitz games, which is like saying I’m taller than a dwarf.

Blue and I used to play our own version of paper football with sugar packets when we waited for our food at Denny’s as teenagers. Our natural competitiveness often led to full-out brawls.

This one is actually the new and “improved” version of one of Orbitz’s original games. Updated or not, it’s just too easy to smack the ball out of the park. Kind of like in softball.

This one is one of the most addicting Orbitz games. I can’t tell you why. But hand a beanbag to someone and tell him to toss it, and he always will. It’s in our nature as human beings to want to toss bags full of beans.

This game is strange but at least I can say it’s original. You toss these little blue men that look like old bananas from one virtual island to another. You need some pretty advanced knowledge in geometry and physics to get the jumps right, so make sure you bust out your scientific calculator.

Pretty sneaky, Princess.

While waiting out Saturday night’s thunderstorm, The Princess and I ducked into my favorite bar Bedrock Billiards in Adams Morgan for a couple of beers.

We lounged on the broken couch and drank PBR (me) and cider (her). The Princess then offered to play me at Connect Four. “Ha ha, you frail stupid woman!” I laughed boisterously, ignoring my history of ill-conceived hubris. “I’m going to kick your ass!”

Ten minutes later, I had lost four straight games. The Princess’ wicked cackling has been hautning me since.

To save some pride, I went online yesterday to play the interactive Milton Bradley . As it turns out, a game I once thought I was great at has rendered me a dribbling, pathetic moron. I lost three games and tied one, which I considered a moral victory.

To improve my C4 skillz, I might want to take a couple of sick day and read Victor Allis’s 93-page thesis, “A Knowledge-based Approach of Connect-Four”, in which he used game theory to “solve” Connect Four while he was a student in 1988 at Vrije Universiteit in Amsterdam. I know I recently pointed out yet another reason not to trust the Dutch, but if I’m going to tie my masuclinity and self-esteem into this poor man’s checkers game, I’ll take all the help I can get.

Otherwise, I’ll end up as retarded a player as the kids in this commercial from, oh, looks like 1873.

“I used to be with it, but then they changed what “it” was. Now, what I’m with isn’t “it”, and what’s “it” seems weird and scary to me.” — Grandpa Simpson

Do the kids still stay “keep it real” and “fo-shizzle”? Do people still watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force? Is anyone still listening to Ludacris?

These might sound like rhetorical questions, but they are, sadly, reflections of my growing ignorance with what is “in” these days. Honestly, I have no idea what “the kids” — those ubiquitous people who drive market value –- care about anymore. And the worst part might be that I’m ok with that.

In the 60s, Jerry Rubin said, “Don’t trust anyone over 30”. Well, now at 31, I realize why. We don’t know shit. There IS nothing to trust.

Ludacris lyrics? Don’t recognize them. That Fergie video? Haven’t seen it. Aqua Teen Hunger Force? Didn’t know it was out.

More and more, I am slipping away from what the mainstream consider popular and hip. Hell, I don’t even know if people still say “hip”. I still listen to Pearl Jam, still think Wayne’s World quips are funny, and think “ooh…‘moted!” is a great comeback.

I imagine this is what happened to my parents’ generation and each before it. When I was a teen and my peers set guidelines for what is cool, I never imagined that someday I wouldn’t be part of that driving force. I also never thought I’d be SO out of the loop of what is considered cool.

So go ahead, you “in crowd”, keep your YouTubes and MySpaces and trucker hats. I’m over 30 now.

I have several feet of gauze and tape wrapped around my right-hand index finger. I wish I could tell you it’s because I injured it saving orphans from a burning building or knocking out some douchebag who was groping my girlfriend. But I can’t.

I have an infected hangnail.

This emasculating affliction has relegated me to using my left — now dominant — hand for everything I once considered mundane and easy: typing on a keyboard, pouring water into a cup, washing my hair, etc.

This is not fun.

I can’t type with the infected finger so I have promoted my right middle finger to General Index Finger status. It’s adapting much slower than I expected.

I can’t get it wet so I have taken to showering with a latex glove wrapped around my hand and held in place with a rubber band. This adds 10 minutes to my morning.

I’m not going to even go into the difficulties of urinating.

Growing up, I envied my few friends who were lefty. They were different, unique, and got to use special scissors. I wanted to be lefty and cursed my parents’ decision to let me develop my dexterity-preference naturally.

When I learned that “sinister” was Latin for “left”, I grew even more despondent. “Why, god, why?” I asked an abstract idea of a magical creator, “Why was I born like 85 to 90% of the population?”

Now, thanks to a medical fluke, I got my wish. But I decided to look at it as a positive and “teach” my left hand to perform all the activities once assigned to ol’ righty. Alas, this hasn’t worked out like I had hoped.

Brushing my teeth leaves my gums bruised from being smacked by my toothbrush. Pouring myself a glass of water leaves wet spots on the ground from lefty’s inability to judge weight. And tossing a baseball around makes me look like a 5-year-old girl.

This can’t happen ever again. I’m buying an emery board.

“What are the chances of a guy like you and a girl like me ending up together?” – Jim Carrey, Dumb and Dumber

It’s clear that men and women have no idea how to use pickup lines. The overuse of astrology enquiries, bad puns, and faulty idioms has made a mockery of these conversation starters and relegated the unctuous art form to the dump heap of inter-sex mating rituals.

Thank goodness for Ladies’ Home Journal.

A recent LHJ article (which I read on MSN, I swear) gave advice to women on the top 10 best pickup lines to use on men. It didn’t address how men might better improve their lines because we all know men are hopeless.

The writer’s “research”, apparently, included talking to a male dating coach and rehashing all her failed pickup lines. Pretty good gig she’s got going there. A couple of quotes, some bad memories, save, print, cha-ching!

Let’s analyze and rate a few of these pickup lines and see if we can’t give some women out there the cojones to approach men.

“Hi!”

Rating: 8 (out of 10)

Brilliant. Every single piece of advice on approaching women I’ve ever read says to open up with this gem. Of course, it NEVER includes what to say next. I suppose women need to be told the same thing since men never think to start conversations with the most popular, casual form of hello.

“That’s a cool pocket-watch. Where’d you get it?”

Rating: 3.5

Pocketwatch? Though I may have once in men’s fashion, I don’t think women will find any men who actually own and wear them. Ladies, the men you’re attracted to are pretty few as it is; you might not want to narrow the field down any further by using this ancient fashion relic as a factor.

“Don’t you think Batman’s cooler than Superman because he doesn’t have super-powers to fall back on?”

Rating: 4

First of all, this is a dumb question. Superman is way cooler because he is the only superhero who must pretend to be his alter ego everyday. That makes him unique. Batman, while a tragic figure, is the result of a privileged yet vengeful man.

Second of all, would hearing the above response to such a question actually make the approached guy more attractive?

“This new Snickers bar is fabulous. You’ve got to try it.”

Rating: 2

Aside from the fact that I have NEVER seen a woman eat a Snickers, I can tell you I have definitely never seen a woman be SO enthusiastic about a Snickers bar that she feels the need to approach a man to inform him on how it tastes. Besides, I’ve been eating Snickers for 31 years, I’m pretty sure I know what they taste like.

“So, what are you doing here?”

Rating: 1.5

What are you, my mother? Can’t I go out without some strange woman checking up on me? Do I know you from MySpace? Did you stalk me on Facebook? This line screams “psycho”.

“I never do this, but I think you’re cute and I got tired of waiting for you to talk to me.”

Rating: 10

Fact: Men like to be told they’re attractive. Myth: Women shouldn’t tell men this. This line is the only legitimate pickup line I think will actually work on men. It’s direct, it’s honest, and it’s low on bullshit. There’s no way a woman can fail using it.

Unless she’s ugly.

I see you there, no use hiding.  Come on out, it’s ok.  No one will make fun of you.  At least not to your face.

Being a “person”, I share many commonalities with other “people”.  Among them is a certain anxiety that friends, family members, and strangers might “find out” that I am NOT the personification of the image I would like to project. 

In other words, that sooner or later, everyone around me will realize I’m a huge, blaring, unmitigated dork.

Luckily for me, everyone else is, too.  Like to keep statistics about what Metro train lines you take every day?  Crap on a stick!  Enjoy spending an hour every night reading the dictionary?  Shitballs!  Secretly pick your bellybutton lint and take photos of the best ones?  Good god!*

Is this such a terrible thing?  Is it hard to admit that we are ALL dorks and we love to participate in dork-related activities?  Many bloggers probably think so.What’s the first thing your typical blogger says when people find out he/she has a blog?  He’ll probably engage in some self-effacing humor meant to cut down his own writing. 

It might go like this:

Blogger slightly embarrassed to have a blog:  “My blog?  Oh, it’s nothing, it’s just a little thing I do for fun.”

Friend of blogger, backing away slowly:  “You are such a dork.”

Blogger now mortified to have a blog:  “I know.”

When we were children, we were not only allowed but encouraged to act like dorks.  We ran naked through sprinklers on hot summer days, collected baseball cards and alphabetized them, and played with our sister’s Cabbage Patch Kid because we were jealous that she had one.  No?  Just me?  Ok, let’s move on.

But once we reached adulthood, we had to suppress this inner dork.  Does that mean it went away?  Probably not.  We just became really good at hiding it.  The smart ones will do dorky things in earnest but call it “ironic”, thereby maintaining the appearance that they’re cool.

For example, take the 14-year-long trend of wearing horn-rimmed eyeglasses.  These glasses were abhorrently dorky for decades and quickly became Hollywood’s favorite way to showcase a nerd in high school movies.

But when I was in college, it became mod to wear these thick, black frames.  BECAUSE the look was so dorky, people wore them ironically and, therefore, were cool for doing so. 

When I found out I had astigmatism, I was thrilled because that meant I could buy these eyeglasses and fulfill the hipster dufus look I was going for.

So release your inner dork.  Don’t fret about what you think and feel might mean to the world or your status within it.  Play kickball with other dorks, become the captain of your darts team, put romantic comedies in your Netflix queue.

But please don’t pick your bellybutton lint.  That’s too dorky.

* I only do one of these things.