-I turned twenty-six over the weekend.  And while you can argue that being twenty-five was technically mid-twenties or late-twenties or whatever, the fact is this: halftime is now over.  The buzzer has sounded, the locker rooms are emptying, and the players are re-taking the field.  For some reason, I feel like I’m on the team that’s getting slaughtered, the coach just made an inspirational speech that I didn’t buy, and, well, we’re looking kinda old out there.  But there’s no turning back and the stakes are raised.  In the game of twentysomething life, the second half has now begun.

-I don’t quite fit the profile of a mature twenty-six-year-old.  Most days I eat take-out for every meal and dress like a slob.  When I enter my apartment building in parachute pants carrying a plastic bag full of burritos, the doormen often assume I’m a deliveryman.

-My buddy Triplet #1 doesn’t turn twenty-six for another few months.  Which is probably good because he enjoys his women, how should I say this…quite young.  A few weekends ago, he was with an underage lady friend when he called me to ask if the bar I was at was carding hard at the door.  I made fun of him for ten minutes for even asking such a question then recommended a daycare center down the block that looked pretty bumpin’.

-I’ve noticed a return to snail mail among my friends as we get older.  In the past month, at least three buddies have asked me for my mailing address.  Who the hell sends actual mail?  It must mean that thank you cards or engagement party invitations are on the way.  In the past four years, no one’s had use for my actual address save for the occasional pre-game at my apartment that resulted in twenty drunken calls from friends asking, “Yo Karo, where the fuck do you live again?”