In this shadowed hour, I find myself contemplating the nuances of timing.

Something as simple as this: it is 8:30 p.m. on a Friday night, and I can’t help but wonder how many fools will be driving up from San Diego to Los Angeles trying to catch the night life. Given the fact that the average club closes around 2 a.m., what will the optimum time to try to drive up there without getting stuck in a buttload of traffic?

It sounds too much like an SAT question, frankly.

The other thing I worry about, not so much because I worry about it that much, personally, but because my mother who worries about everything in the whole wide world keeps reminding me about it, is that around 2 a.m. or so, all the drunks find their way onto the freeways, so I clearly do not want to be out too late lest I find myself roadkill.

(I find it bizarre and disturbing that drunks always seem to survive car crashes, even when the car they hit explodes and incinerates all five people inside. But I digress most macabrely.)

I don’t know if it’s just the fact that summer is clearly over (this despite the fact that I’m sweating like crazy right now because of the lack of air conditioning in my apartment), but I’m starting to feel a little blue. Then again, it could just be the whole turning 30 thing that is finally catching up to me.

I feel adrift and purposeless.

(No seriously, more so than usual.)

Mostly, I just want to sleep. Maybe it’s just the fact that I didn’t do much of that [sleeping] for the past four weeks. I suppose my body just wants to catch up.

But it is interesting what sort of low level misery the body will adapt to. I didn’t realize that I really couldn’t breathe through my nose until I got allergy skin tested yesterday. Then I discovered that, in addition to a bunch of trees, I am allergic to dust mites (not to mention cats and dogs.) So afterwards, I decided to take an antihistamine, and suddenly I feel better. My head feels lighter, and I didn’t have the usual number of headaches today. Ridiculous.

I realize that, despite the nominal fact that I am employed in the health care sector, I don’t take very good care of myself. For the longest time, I’ve been hoping that I’d drop dead young, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the messy ordeal of growing old. But as my lower back begins to ache and all sorts of weird twinges take hold of me, I realize that I may not have a choice. I might still drop dead relatively young, but not before my body grows old before its time. At least, if I continue in my self-destructive ways.

I suppose that might be enough to keep me going for now. Just taking care of my simple needs. Simple pleasures. That is, I guess, the lesson that I’ve learned from my oldest friend B (and from my dog A, who, despite my whopping wheal and flare reaction, I don’t really think I’m allergic to.)

This crippling feeling of isolation and abject loneliness will have to wait awhile before I seek some sort of resolution. I guess what I really should be working on is making sure I don’t have my first MI before I’m 40.

(And, no, aging has not improved my sense of pessimism and dark humor.)