Carpetbagger 5.0

So, we’re putting off part two of the exceptional documentaries until next week. Why? Because this week, the Carpetbagger is turning the…

That’s right, I’m heading into my sixth decade, which sounds much worse than just admitting that you’re fifty. Or, as I also call it: the 22nd anniversary of my 28th birthday. There, that’s not so bad.

On this, the final day of my forties, I’m really not traumatized by it at all. My experience thus far has been that with each passing decade, I have gotten better as a person, and my life has gotten better to boot. So, I say, bring it on! Sure, who wouldn’t like to have the tighter and more pain-free physique of one’s twenties, but I consider it a fair trade for increased wisdom, a loving spouse, and the greater earning potential of middle age. Basically, there are a few more aches and pains, but way less drama.

My biggest fear about 50 was that somebody else (looking at you Mrs. Carpetbagger) would make a big to-do about it with parties and surprises and awkward gifts and such. So, I preemptively suggested that what I really wanted was to turn 50 on a beach. Problem was, I didn’t want to exhaust a week’s worth of vacation days for it. I was thinking, just a long weekend somewhere warm.

Done. We are renting a house on Bradenton Beach. We went to Bradenton last year for a Pirates Spring Training game and loved it. The whole area is like a time capsule. No highrise hotels. No neon clubs. Just lots of little homes, mom & pop businesses, and long stretches of beach. It’s like Florida back in the 1940s.  But with air conditioning. And we’ve found that vacation rentals are way better than hotels. We did it in Paris a few years ago, and loved it. You get way more space than a hotel room, you spend less money per day, and you get a kitchen so that you don’t have to eat out for every single meal. Plus, if you want, you can bring your dog.

Mrs. Carpetbagger has more time off this year. At her company, she can purchase an extra week of vacation! Have you ever heard of such a thing? I hadn’t. Basically, you buy yourself a week off by paying your own salary. But when you split it up over a year of paychecks, it’s only like $20 a pay period. Why can’t I get that? So, she drove down with the dog last weekend and has been living in our rented bungalow all week. I’m flying into Tampa late tonight for a few days of R&R before we all drive back together.

Yes, that means my dog has been on vacation while I’ve been working. How unfair is that? And Mrs. Bagger has been torturing me by texting the occasional shot. Look at her, hanging out on the beach, posing like it’s some kind of doggy Sports Illustrated issue. Living it up on my dime while I’m chained to my desk with a blizzard outside my window. By now, she’s probably insisting on little umbrellas in her water dish and a cabana boy at her beck and call. She’s pretty spoiled like that. Hope she’s using the sun block. She’s pretty pale. And we’ll have to keep her away from all the gators and pythons down there. She’d be a tasty little morsel.

Earlier this week, however, she did run into some ugly discrimination. Yeah, I’ll bet that hurt. Well, it IS the south. You see those gears moving in her head, though. She is SO considering Occupy the Park–she and all her little mutt friends. No pure breads in her posse–all those 1% bastards and bitches. Mutts are the true 99%.

So, I’ll be going dark the rest of the week. Just me, the missus, and Belle the Dog, chillin’ on our deck, sipping on an adult beverage, and enjoying the sunsets as I ease into a new half century. Not a bad way to go.

It’s all clear sailing from here on out. Unless…

Damn!