Women between the ages of, say, 19 and 40, if I can have your attention for a brief moment, I would like to present something to you: me! I just got this new shirt back from the cleaners, I showered and shaved, and I’m sporting a nice new haircut. They even put some gel in it. I got plenty of sleep last night and the light in here at this moment is just right. This is me in my prime. I’m looking sharp and feeling fine. Be warned, though, it’s all going to be downhill from here on out. So who among you is going to be the one to take a crack at this?
Before you reject me out of habit, stop and think for just a minute. I know there’s better out there. I’m no gold-medal guy, but there’s definitely worse. I’m not fat, yet, and I’m not bald, though it definitely runs in my family. I have a tan from doing some yard work at my mom’s house back in Minnesota that will probably result in melanoma when I’m older. It’s as much of the whole package as you’re ever gonna get with me. Here it is. The dinner bell’s ringing, and it ain’t getting any hotter, so come and get it!
Feel this. That’s distinct definition in my biceps. I joined a gym in March. I’ve been working out two or three times a week, but I know that it isn’t going to last. Maybe six months more before I decide that I would rather sleep in instead. And before you know it, this definition will melt away like butter in the sun. Sure, I won’t get fat for a few years. But it’s coming, so I suggest you jump on the Jeff Macon train while it’s still in the semi-attractive station.
If you want me to meet your parents and friends, it had better be soon—in fact, this weekend would be best. I’m in a good mood overall. I am presentable and my resolve has not yet been eroded by years of bitterness and regret. I am still optimistic about getting involved in a long-term relationship, even though in five years the sex will slow to a trickle and I’ll be riddled with doubts about whether I jumped into this too soon. The wedding pictures will look great, though, I promise.
If you’re worried about stability, don’t be. I just got a new job last week. It’s entry-level at a software company, but I still have some hopes and dreams about pursuing my music. I might even start a band. That’s right now. Realistically, that band will just wind up being me and some friends getting together to drink. In 15 years, the “band” will be a memory. I’ll be mired in middle management at the same job, and won’t be able to see farther down the road than the six-pack I’ll drink when I get home at night. So, seriously, you’d better strike while the iron’s hot.
If you want to check out my house to get some insight into my personality, you should come over right away. I spent the afternoon throwing out a bunch of old magazines and straightening up the place. I took my action figures and put them in a box, where they’ll stay until I start to feel nostalgic for my childhood again. I vacuumed, too. That was such a pain that I don’t see myself doing it again for a long time. Hang on—I just need to put my Skeletor back on the mantle.
While the expiration date on Jeff Macon is still a few years down the road, my optimal shelf-life is going to expire in two days. In fact, even since I began writing this, my personal appearance has gotten imperceptibly though irreversibly worse. The longer you wait, the further advanced my decline will be. Ladies, the clock is ticking. My teeth won’t be my own forever.
So. Who’s first?
