With the end of the twentieth century now in clear view, the number is swarming around in my head. Two thousand. What's two thousand? The Earth? Nope. Even creationists tag on a few more thousand years. Evolutionists say millions. Jesus? Not really. That's like saying my mutt dog Willie, who got hit by a car and died when I was a kid, turns fourteen this year. Basically, our calendar is turning two thousand. So how old is anything? How old am I? I found out the answers on a cold December Wednesday night.

It was the night of my steady job's Christmas party. It wasn't so much of a party for the employees as it was for the clients of the two architecture firms of the building. They put on a good spread. Lots of cold cuts, gumbo, chips, dips and sodas. But no booze. This didn't come as a surprise as I suspect I'm the only one in the building who ever comes in with a hangover. Strangely, their lives don't seem fuller due to the lack of alcoholic consumption. But back to the party.

I was the only employee from the editorial room to attend the shindig, and I knew none of the clients who were chatting away with other architects. I filled up my plate with cold cut sandwiches and cheese dip and wandered around listening for stimulating conversations. These people, however, didn't accommodate me. They talked about work. They talk about the dreary projects I do my best to shut out of my mind the second I leave the office every day. They relived the painful moments of reading and reworking the same report six to eight times, laughing weakly after each negative reinforcement. I smiled at their pain, ate my sandwiches and said very little. How old was I? I was a tired 48 years old.

I intentionally showed up for just the last hour of the party because I wanted to go downtown afterwards. Any party that ends at eight o'clock at night deserves only an hour of my attention. I slipped away without much notice (kind of like my regular work day) and went to a bar.

I ordered a pint of Murphy's and watched a band called The Hippos from the upstairs "you're allowed to drink and watch the show area." Like the rest of the people upstairs, I leaned over the edge, peering down at the band. My head bopped with their occasional catchy riffs and lyrics, but for the most part, I stayed stationary along with my peers. My peers? These were my peers? These lifeless, don't excrete any ounce of emotion, stand around and wait to be noticed bunch of zombies. If they said anything, it was to make fun of other people (thus somehow making themselves appear superior). Dozens of leather jackets and greaser attitudes. I decided to hang out with the most interesting presence in the crowd. A couple more pints of Murphy's. How old was I? I was a listless 27 years old.

Then came the band I paid ten bucks to see--The Aquabats. They were a cartoon super hero style ska band. I opted to hang out in the all ages, no drinking lower area of the bar. Basically where all of the teenagers were. From the get go, I jumped up and down and grooved back and forth as the super heroes sank silly tales of pirates, TV and being super rad. "When I was a little man, play-doh came in a little can, I was Star Wars biggest fan, now I'm stuck without a plan. Take me back to my happy land, take me back to my happy land, take me back to my happy land, take me back to my happy land." I skanked and sweat along with the kids, occasionally glancing up at the ambivalent crowd above me. But I didn't give a shit anymore. I didn't care about anything. How old was I? I was an oblivious 16 years old.

After the show, I drove home and sank into my sunken mattress, drifting away to sleep with ringing ears and smoky hair. How old was I? Timeless.

I've heard that you're as old as you feel, but you're really as old as the positions you put yourself in. They say the world is turning two thousand. I guess it depends on where you are and how you look at it.

Chris Jungle is twenty-five and a half years old, according to all official documents.