In the Name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, and, the Stickiest of the Icky....

“I let my tape rock ’til my tape popped/ Smokin’ weed and bamboo, sippin’ on private stock…”

First off, let me sincerely apologize for the filler for the last two weeks….it was finals time at law school, and this was my very last set of finals, so I had to go out with a Bang. So...raise your glasses, because as of this Friday, it’s now “The Real Dookie, Esquire,” to you. But for now, enjoy this post.

As my friends and I prepare to graduate from graduate school (and drink ourselves into oblivion while we wait), we have all pondered or reflected recently upon some variant of the statement, “I’m getting old.” This is either because we are too emotional, can’t party like we used to, can’t eat whatever we want like we used to, are doing things our younger selves never thought we’d do, or for some of us, a combination of all of those things. I really did not pay my friends much mind as they commented on how they were getting old, because, considering I was married with child at 20 years old, I have never really felt “young.” But then, it happened. I had my old fogey moment, too, and I’ll share it with you.

This semester I took a pass-fail elective class (I know, I know, but it was my last semester, and I was sick of the law) on the Roman Catholic Canon Law. It was taught by a sixty-something Catholic priest out of the divinity school. The class was largely uneventful by blog standards, until one time after class I had the opportunity to talk in private with one of the priests who lived with our teacher. I’ll call this priest “Padre.” Padre liked to talk about his younger days to us, and we were more than happy to hear about them. I personally find the lives of priests totally interesting and also was hoping to hear his views on some areas of Catholic doctrine that were fuzzy to me, so I was stoked to get this opportunity. Also, as you could tell right away, Padre was a great guy. If I knew him better, I’d kind of characterize his personality as that of a priest like Robert De Niro’s character in “Sleepers” – not a priest who was your friend, but, a friend who just happened to be a priest.

Ironically, and shittily, my “I’m so flipping old” moment came when I realized that Padre’s life could run circles around mine. Not too long into the conversation, Padre revealed himself as the most liberal, laid-back, socially-gifted priest-slash-party-animal I’ve ever freaking met. Padre talked to us about how much he hates Bush, how stupid the Supreme Court was when they upheld a state law which banned sodomy, how disappointed he was about the election of Benedict XVI, how priests should be able to get married and have kids, and, as the bombshell, how much weed he used to smoke when he was younger. Oh, that’s right -- Padre smoked some doobies back in the day. Padre talked about how he used to get drunk and high and listen to music, and how mary jane was a “great” drug for improving musical skills and a musical ear, and (another bombshell), how Congress was stupid for encouraging the legalization of pot across America. Like, if I closed my eyes, and heard this shit, I would have thought I was watching like “Politically Incorrect,” or “The Daily Show,” or some “objective” take on the state of the law on ABC News. But no, this was my representative of Jesus on Earth.

As Padre kept revealing to us bombshell after bombshell, we were cracking up line after line. However, as the smile on my face got bigger and bigger on my face (as I thought his honesty and humor were awesome, though I didn’t agree with much of what he said), a part of me felt like I had been kicked in the balls by a wild stallion. How screwed up is my life that a Catholic priest is more worldly than I am? How much of a reject am I that I’m less socially adept and waaaaay more conservative than a clergy member who can’t even marry? I mean, we didn’t get into it, but Padre probably got more ass than a toilet seat in high school, while I was falling asleep with an AP Calculus book on my lap at 9:30.

Then, as I got to thinking, I realized that I am the oldest mother-funker I know. “Wifey” always used to say that I was never young – that I went from 18 to 41. The worst part is, she’s right. Here is just a partial list of how Goddamned old I am:

1. I hate clubs. I absolutely hate clubs. I hate clubbers, the club scene, going clubbing, dancing, drinking at clubs, club-hopping, club music, glow sticks, girls who frequent clubs, men who frequent clubs, club D.J.’s, club owners, and the club lifestyle. I hate clubs so much, I hate the Ace of Clubs. ‘Nuff said.

2. I have never used any form of any illegal drug, ever. I have never even really smoked a cigarette. This is pretty amazing, considering I have attended the “Harvard [of Party Schools] of the South,” and the actual “Harvard of the South.” Meanwhile, my priest has apparently hit enough bongs to single handedly prop-up the indoor fluorescent light bulb industry for a decade.

3. I hate strip clubs. I’m supposed to degrade these women, but I feel like they get to degrade me. I feel like the piece of meat. Why, God, why?

4. It’s a pretty safe bet that I am at least double the emotional age of both my father and my former step-father. In fact, sometime within the next year or so, at the ripe old age of 25 or 26, my marriage will have lasted longer than my parents’s.

5. I am crotchety and crabby and cranky like my grandmother. When I don’t get enough sleep, everything annoys me. Even the littlest things set me off. Like the other night, when I walked out of a bar when some fake slut insinuated that I was “cheap” because I would not give in to her request to “tip the band.” Tip the band? Who in the hell tips the band? And the band was ass, anyway. Their cover of “Something Like That” made the original version by Tim McGraw sound like Johnny Cash. And a few nights later, when a waitress refused to let me pay for a pizza because the Staffman insisted on paying. I got so pissed off, I stopped talking to her. Then she was like “Are you mad at me?” I ended up stealing her gold-plated Cross ® pen before the night was over and driving home with it, if that is any indication of my answer to her question.

6. I just realized that not only does me getting mad at these things make me old, but my piss-poor ideas of what constitutes adequate revenge makes me look even older.

I think that gives you an adequate idea. My only hope is that a summer of being away from law school, lawyers, and Nash Vegas will be like the fountain of youth for me. If not, though, maybe Padre can hook me up with some Chronic to ease my glaucoma.