Last week my roommate and I were finishing our beers with a couple of college girls who had just let us know they were 21 and 22. Having given up this info, they wanted to know about us. 28, said my roommate. 31, said I.

I'm not actually 31 yet. And when I realized what I'd said, I explained that I would be 31 in a week or so. Our ages didn't scare them as much as our views on the war. I totally forgot there are Republican women on college campuses.

Unconsciously, I've already gotten older. I think this happens every year. The turn of the real year, which happens a month before my birthday, usually signals the acceptance time. Get ready to be that next age. I accept and move past the milestone before it actually happens.

31 won't as big a year as 30, I don't think. Getting into the third decade is big for a lot of people, although, as I noticed last year, it's really more traumatic for the people you tell than it is for you. I've actually enjoyed telling people my age over the last year because, especially with girls, they feel they must complement you on how "you don't look that old at all." Like I did something to accomplish this age-defying look.

I get more old man references at work, because I'm 4-8 years older than most of the people I work with. My bosses are older, but those of us who do most of the grunt work, we're 20s to early 30s. And since I've been at the company longer than almost anyone else, I'm the old man. I think there is a bit of reverence to this title, but maybe I'm just kidding myself.

I've been re-reading Bukowski's Notes of a Dirty Old Man because it's a nice bedtime story tome. A collection of columns from a weekly paper in LA, Notes gives me hope that I still have a bit of life left. And the capacity to fuck up and still keep going gets easier and easier as time goes by. Just from the experience. Maybe it just doesn't bother me to fuck up anymore.

There are a few things I've noticed about myself in the last year:

It's harder to overcome those late drunken nights. The hangovers don't get easier, they actually hurt more. It hasn't changed my capacity for highly vocal drunkenness, but I usually have a better sense of when to call it. I don't rage on into the morning so much anymore.

My body is easier to gauge these days. If I stretch, do my calisthenics and jump around, I feel better. I sleep better. I don't feel all tight and bent up. When I skip these things, I have less energy, and I sleep badly.

I think perspective is the best thing about getting old. I can figure out situations easier because I've probably been in the situation once or dozens of times before. It doesn't always mean I'm good at working out the situation, but at least I have an example to draw on. At least I'm not flying blind as much as I used to.

And some things never change.

I'm still bad with girls. I tend to overlook almost any character flaw of a good-looking girl, but if I find one with a nice personality who I'm not so attracted to, then there is no chance in hell I'll really be interested. I'm probably not trying hard enough to work on this as I should, but there are so many things in life to fix. I guess I don't mind being shallow sometimes.

I'm still trying hard to wear this body out before the expiration date. This is why it's so funny when I get complemented on "looking young." I'm really not trying so hard at this. I don't eat terribly well a lot of the time. I still have fast food for most of my lunches. I have dinner at bars on a semi-regular basis. I'm still a carnivore. I now have a penchant for red wine, whiskey and beer. Just not all at once. I added the wine component a year and a half ago. The whiskey thing (sometimes gin) is rather new to the past year. It feels like I'm growing, though. Spreading my alcoholism across all the major drink groups. I still amp up with coffee on the weekends. It still sit in the sun longer than I should. I still smoke the magical Hobbit green leaf. I'm pretty sure one of these vices will kick me in the ass sometime.

But all in all, I feel pretty good. 31 should be fine. A prime number. I don't get another one till 37. Maybe by that time I'll have grown up a bit.

And then again maybe I won't.

Matt Worley isn't concerned with winning the race, just staying competitive for a little while longer.