“Biff’s Editorial: The Long, Slow Fade Into Irrelevance (At 30)”

I turned 30 last week. The moment the clock struck midnight, my reflection aged ten years and developed opinions about mortgage rates.

There was a time—not long ago—when I was a prince among men. I could keg-stand my way into any conversation. My body was a monument to mediocrity, sculpted by intramural flag football and Wendy’s 4 for 4s. Now? I grunt and make sounds when I sit down. My knees creak and speak in tongues.

The other day I said “vibes are off” and a teenager asked me if I needed help finding my caretaker.

I used to be the target demographic. Now I’m a cautionary tale.

It wasn’t always like this. At 24, I was the golden mean of masculinity: youthful enough to still say “YOLO” with irony, old enough to rent a car without a cosigner. But somewhere between my sixth fantasy football league and the discovery that I actually enjoy quieter bars more, the culture moved on.

I am no longer culturally viable.

What the hell is going on. I walk into a room and I feel like a ghost. Young hot girls don’t even make eye contact. Streaming services suggest shows about wilderness survival. Not the rugged, shirtless Bear Grylls kind. No, these are about middle-aged men who’ve lost their way in the suburbs and renovate backyard sheds to reconnect with “the real.” I eat hummus out of the container and wonder if I’m already halfway there.

Dating apps? The algorithm has deemed me “sturdy.” It doesn’t show me pics of sorority girls, just divorcee moms. One match said I gave “stepdad energy.” I cried in the parking lot of a Home Depot, then bought mulch just to feel something.

I am a relic. A man with a flip cup trophy and no one to show it to. A guy whose ‘Spotify Wrapped’ included Creed without irony. The youth have ghosted me. And honestly? They should.

Because what do I offer, really? I still quote Anchorman. My greatest culinary triumph is a breakfast burrito made entirely in a microwave. And yet, I yearn to be heard.

They say 30 is the new 20. But I feel like it’s the old 50.

What’s up with the world? The kids today don’t even ironically wear cargo shorts. They just don’t. What’s up with that?! They know things like skincare routines, bread recipes and how to make a decent negroni. I knew one guy in college who used body wash and dish soap interchangeably and still had sex. Today, that doesn’t fly

I scroll TikTok and feel like I’m eavesdropping on a language I once spoke. Everything is inside jokes now. No one references Superbad. They don’t even remember Dane Cook. They think Green Day is classic rock. They’ve never burned a CD. They’ve never stolen cable.

I am a ghost haunting a mall food court no one visits. (Mostly because no one remembers what a mall is)

But perhaps there is dignity in this fade. Maybe irrelevance is just… freedom with a pulled hamstring. Maybe wisdom is what happens when you stop being invited to things.

So, I say this to my fellow aging bros: Don’t rage against the dying of the light. Just… dim the bulbs a little. Switch to warm LEDs. Take a probiotic. Watch The West Wing again. You’ve earned it.

Because sure, the youth are sleek and ironic and unburdened by the trauma of the 90’s. But we? We remember.

We remember Redbox and when Netflix DVDs. We remember when a mix CD meant something. We remember what it was like to believe Blink-182 was saying something profound.

We remember… us.

And for that, we endure.