Remember the Apple Newton? Didn’t think so.

Sorry to get all sentimental on you guys. This one’s going in a different direction (think Friends 5th season).
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I’m 23 now.

Many of you withstood me bitching and whining all day long about taking yet another step toward the inevitable. I was trying to be facetious about the whole aging thing, but the more I joked about it, the more aware I became of the passage of time. It did not help that my birthday coincided with my last day at the greatest job I’ve ever held.

23. So what? I’m still in the early 20s. I’m still young and my liver is still invincible. My whole life this year will be a tribute to Michael Jordan (HT: Calvin). Sounds pretty good, actually.



The fact that I am now 23, however, is amplified because I’ve spent the last six months of my life working closely with high school kids. To put this fact into perspective, consider that this year’s high school sophomore class was born in 1994. I was born in 1987 (MIT ‘87 WHAT). I am seven years senior to most of my students. Here are some highlights of what has happened in the past seven years:

• I went from being a super nerdy gunner in high school to discovering the magic of White Russians and consequently becoming a raging jerkwad AA member. (I am definitely not a gunner anymore, because unlike back then, I now realize that sleep is delicious so all-nighters can suck it.)
• DVD became the dominant home video format, phasing out VHS. My dad’s walk-in closet full of video tapes and LaserDiscs (yes, LASERDISCS) will either be worthless or be his retirement fund/my medical school fund.
• Internet speeds have increased exponentially, allowing for video streaming. In unrelated news, the porn industry has since seen an unprecedented meteoric rise (TEEHEE meteoric rise porn get it? ok done sorry).
• The SAT had a major overhaul. We were the last class to exclusively take the old format.
• I went from 220 lbs. to 255 lbs. back down to my current 210 lbs., and yet I still can’t run faster than a ten-minute mile.
• Michael Jackson died. MICHAEL JACKSON DIED.

When I teach, I like to take the time to chat a little bit with my students, to get into their shoes and bond with them. Even though I knew they were only fifteen or sixteen years old, I was still caught off guard by how different of a place they were all in. I forgot that some of them can’t drive yet. They’ve never touched an SAT book. Hell, some of them still get grounded. One of my students had no idea what VHS is. Another one didn’t know that Justin Timberlake used to be in a boy band called *NSYNC. Yet another student gave me blank stares when I quoted the “Brrr, it’s cold in here” line from Bring It On (STOP JUDGING). They don’t pay rent, they don’t pay bills, they don’t know what it’s like to live on their own yet. I drink legally, they run when cops bust up house parties. That’s seven years’ difference for you.

What jarred me the most, however, is that their parents talk to me as if I’m an adult, like I give off the illusion that I am now mature enough to handle responsibility and not make inappropriate jokes or swear openly in class. They ask me for advice and they talk to me as if they value my opinion, for crying out loud. They think I’m a grown-up. (I’m clearly living a lie.)

Back to the point: I’m 23. And though I didn’t celebrate in bombastic fashion like I did with my 22nd, it was honestly one of the best birthdays a guy could ask for. I was invited to dinner with one of my regular students and her parents, having only met the parents four days prior. My word, that cake her mother made was SO BOMB. Being invited to a memorable, fantastic dinner by strangers and receiving gifts that weigh far more than their value in gold made me giddy like a Catholic schoolgirl. That’s why despite the fact that I didn’t spend dinner with old friends, I felt just as warmly embraced. Observe:

They bought me that ridiculous hat, which I was forced to wear while they photodocumented me blowing out TWENTY-THREE STICKS OF FIRE (I couldn’t blow them out all at once). And they got me that birthday card on the left. But the most important thing I got that night was the thank-you card on the right. The student went to all the other students who took my Exam Cram class and got them to sign that thank-you card for me. I mean, who does that? How ridiculous is that? They sure know how to rip at my heartstrings. Looks like I’ll be stuck paying them back in academic support for years to come.

But a Gordo party wouldn’t be a Gordo party without the evening ending in appropriate drunken fashion. I did eventually end up at my watering hole, The Beta Lounge, where drinks were downed, jovial exchanges were made and blah blah blah you know the drill. Thanks to third-party quoting, this is something that my caretaker for the night, PermaRA, said, a sentence that sums up the night perfectly:

“I knew it was going to be bad when he walked out of his room, unsure of whether he had pants on or not. He did not.”

We ended up at In-N-Out. And that is where my 23rd birthday ended.

I’m 23. Thank you all for helping me take that step.

Regular alcohol-driven raging jerkwad Gordo returns soon.