My 16-year-old self is so disappointed

Editor's note -- The actual birthdate of the author is still a week away. In an effort to maximize the Hallmark-happiness that is bound to ensue, all gripes are being addressed a week in advance to make the day a happy day. Thank you.

Today I woke up around 10 a.m., made a half-assed breakfast and watched three episodes of The Simpsons. I didn't wash my face. I brushed my teeth but didn't floss. I threw on yesterday's T-shirt, running shorts and house shoes. Other than checking the mail, I haven't been outside today. Tonight I'll work for about five hours as a server in a mediocre restaurant. Then I'll go to the gym and think about the things I like to think about when I'm alone with my iPod and my eclectic playlists.

Ten years ago, while I was shopping for cars with my dad and planning the best 16th birthday party ever, I felt like a real stud. The promise of being 16 meant so much at the time. That's when my lofty plans for life took form in my mind. I was going to attend Arizona State University and then move to New York City, where I would sleep with supermodels and write prolific articles for Esquire. I'd be a cocktail-guzzling, suit-wearing bachelor like you see in completely unrealistic movies.

And while life didn't quite turn out that way (at least not yet), I'm content to know that my 26th birthday party with be spent with many close friends at my favorite restaurant at a party in my honor. And I'll guzzle cocktails. And I'll wear a suit (because I'm definitely a bachelor). And by the end of the night, I'll have made my 16-year-old self proud not because of my job, but because I'll be happy.