10 before 30

For those unaware, my husband will be celebrating something super special in a few days - his thirtieth birthday. I suppose this is the sort of event that gives one pause, makes one reflect on what he or she has - or hasn't - accomplished, and then promptly causes one to fall into a panic-y tailspin.

But I happen to think that's dumb.

Everyone knows that fat is the new skinny, college is the new middle school, dumb is the new smart and thirty is the new twenty, so really - what's the big deal? Compiling a list of goals to accomplish before one turns thirty is fine and good and all, but vowing to save more, travel more and finally sit down to write that novel is so...cliche. So instead of practical goals, here's a short list of activities I would like to see Nathan accomplish during his last 50 or so hours of his twenties:

1. Get a awesomely ridiculous haircut. A rat-tail, a mohawk, or something like this, perhaps?
2. Start a bar fight.
3. Tattoo my name on his arm. Or, perhaps on his butt. His choice.
4. Shoot a gun. Preferably, a great big one.
5. Speaking of guns - catch a bullet either in his teeth or with his bare hand.
6. Get an eight-track tape of LA Woman and steal a car. Get in that car, play the tape full blast, and drive West. When the tape ends, get out, and go to the nearest bar, and start to play pool, or pinball, or possibly even foosball, and wait to get into a fight. Afterwards, get back into that car, and drive till it runs out of gas. Then, torch it. And as he's standing there, watching those flames, if he can still hear the Doors sound, he can then become a Doors fan.
7. Wrestle a bear.
8. Stab an elf king and purloin his cloak of invisibility.
9. Write an epic poem about the twilight of his youth in perfect iambic pentameter.
10. Streak.

That's the preliminary list, anyway. I may add more things as I think them up, but feel free to add your own, should you feel so cruel inclined...

UPDATE: Nathan tells me he's already done #4 (lucky dog), so in its place I'm suggesting that he burn all his money, get drunk on Walden and head out - on foot - for the Alaskan wilderness taking only a thirty pound bag of rice, his Swiss army knife and a head full of Thoreau quotes and London-esqe landscapes with him. In other words, pull a McCandless.

Of course, he only has two days before the big 3-0, so I'd be satisfied if he'd just shop shaving, grab a few packs of Ramen noodles and wander aimlessly around our backyard for an hour or two...