In one hour and forty minutes, I will be saying goodbye to my twenties and hello to my thirties. Everyone seems to have their own personal Scary Age. The number that seems impossibly far away until it’s staring up at you from the top of a cake, in a blaze of fire and glory. Go ahead, shut your eyes. You cannot ignore that many candles.
In my very unscientific poll, thirty appears to be the Scary Age for a large percentage of the population. People younger than that age balk at the number. “You’re going to be THIRTY??” Their eyes widen in disbelief and horror. I’ve gotten that a lot during the past month. On the one hand, I should probably take their shock as a compliment. Their senses cannot resolve the conflicting information they are receiving: their eyes tell them I’m a vivacious twentysomething while their ears hear me say the word, thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirty...
On the other hand, it may just be that I dress inappropriately young. Which is probably the likelier answer. One cannot enter one’s thirties with a wardrobe comprised of Old Navy yoga pants and Target tank tops. Or CAN they …
Then there is the other side of the demographic spectrum. The people who see the the road sign for Exit Thirty as a speck in their rearview mirror. I work in an engineering department at the University. Which means I work with a lot of individuals with a lot of years under their high-waisted belts. Perfectly nice people. They are great at sharing thoughts on financial planning or whether Mad Men accurately depicts what life was like in the 1950s. You would think these people would have some perspective on how insignificant turning thirty really is in the scheme of things. I mean, some of these professors lived through the Dust Bowl. (I’m trying to say that I work with some old farts. Is that coming across?)
But even these wizened, ancient beings raised a bushy eyebrow in my direction all day yesterday. “Turning thirty, eh? Ooooo, that’s a big one, isn’t it? How ya doin’?”
Um … doing just fine? I have cake. I have lovely gifts and cards from coworkers. I have a check from my grandma and an overflowing shopping cart at Zappos.com. All in all, a pretty good day at the office.
Here’s the thing: I didn’t realize that turning thirty was such a big, BIG deal. Sure, NBC devoted a whole plot line on Friends to Rachel turning thirty, but I thought that was just a Jennifer-Aniston-debuting-a-new-haircut thing. Rachel was never a model for appropriate emotional maturity. (I still adamantly believe that Rachel was less psychosocially developed than Joey. Who summarizes a relationship in an eighteen-page letter, FRONT AND BACK, and expects someone like Ross to actually read it? YOU WERE ON A BREAK.)
Nineties sitcoms aside, I thought most jokes about thirty-turning were pretty much sarcastic. Apparently not. I’ve had multiple people ask me if I am okay -- oh yeah, I’m fine -- and then really … am I okay -- see, now you’re just starting to freak me out -- followed by an empathetic nod. I’m just turning thirty. It’s not like I killed a kitten. (Which I have done. Technically it was kittyslaughter, not kitty murder, given the lack of intent. But that’s another story for another time.) I’ve made it twenty-nine-years-and-three-hundred-sixty-four-days without dying once. Shouldn’t this be a happy occasion?
I’ve been trying to figure out why I’m not freaking out more, given everyone’s concern. Here’s what I’ve come up with: for me, turning thirty means that my age is finally catching up to my lifestyle. I’ve been living the life of a thirty-or-older-year-old since I was fourteen. FINALLY, I can knit earnestly and not just ironically. No more hipster slouch hats. It’s all granny squares and house slippers from here on out. My obsession with all things Riverdance just makes me culturally aware. My early bedtime is not pathetic but pragmatic. I can openly enjoy watching PBS shows. Hell, I may leave them on my DVR. No need to immediately delete them to avoid the shame of some house guest accidentally scrolling through and seeing them. I’m thirty. Public television viewing is to be expected. I no longer have to stand in a store’s underwear section for ten minutes, trying to decipher whether the string bikini or the low-rise hipster is less wedgie-inducing. No more VPL (Visible Panty Line) shame. Now I can walk right to the granny panties, grab the highest-rise brief, and march towards the cash register, silky bloomers flapping in the breeze like Old Glory.
Oh beauuuutiful for fuuuuull coverage..
To be fair, I do anticipate some downsides. I now know that anyone I work with aged twenty-one or younger will immediately view me as the old fart of the office. Security alarms will go off if I set even one toe into a store like Forever 21. Even concerts will eventually slip away if I'm not careful. For now, with the right lighting and eye makeup I can pass for an older-but-not-old fan. One that is seasoned. Knows exactly what side of the stage has the best viewing opportunities. Knows that the drinking bracelet goes on the right wrist, not the left. But it’s a fine line between hip adult and hip replacement.
(One refreshing anecdote: at a concert earlier this month, the lead singer from Relient K talked about how he took turning thirty hard. Like, rock star hard. Nice to know that, behind those tight jeans and leather cuff bracelets, even musicians can have a "what have I done with my life" moment. And are old enough to remember that Friends episode.)
To be fair, there are certainly things that I wish were different about my life. Things that I had accomplished or done better. But I don’t think that adding more time would have really help. I am a creature of habit, risk-aversion, and resistance to change. (Increased self-awareness being another benefit to turning thirty.) Someone giving me a time traveling machine would be a huge waste of a science-fiction plotline. The only thing I could see changing is that maybe -- MAYBE -- I would kill house centipedes a few years earlier than when I finally did. Which was last year. Other than that, my guess is that thing would have pretty much been the same.
Sure, there are bigger things. Relationship, travel, job promotion, kids. Those would be nice things to have in the right set of circumstances. And I have great examples of friends and family with those plot points in their life story at thirty. But I also see a lot of examples of ones that aren’t so sunny. Even the ones that work aren’t perfect. Take today, for example. My mom, sister, and niece came down to spend the day. We had a perfect day of chatting and eating and shopping, but most of the day was spent scurrying around after the little one. I know that I’m biased, but my niece is almost painfully adorable. Big blue eyes, blond hair in curls, a smile that takes up her entire face. She’s so cute that it almost makes me jealous of my sister. Almost.
Because, as my angelic little niece smiled and spun around my living room… suddenly she stopped.
And stood there.
And shivered.
And dropped a deuce.
And my loving, patient, sleep-deprived sister had the honor of taking a deep breath and changing that diaper. Whereas my role as Aunt-In-Chief was to laugh hysterically and document the whole thing (except the diaper change) on video.
All in all, I’ll take what I have: family, friends, health, home, job, basic cable package, jumbo-sized Nutella jar. Not a bad way to start my third decade! Here’s to enjoying the next seven years until I hit my own personal Scary Age: Thirty-Seven! (It’s late thirties AND it’s a prime number. I don’t know why that makes it worse, but it does.)
And yes, after spending the last two nights out, I am too tired to do anything tonight on my actual birthday. So I am reading through lovely cards and notes and posts with birthday wishes, writing this post, and enjoying a fine dinner of white wine and Twix bars. THIRTY KICKS ASS!
