Thirtynothing

I'm turning thirty. What's that? Aren't I six months shy yet of twenty-nine? Oh sure.

But have you ever noticed how shocked and unprepared people are when they hit decades? Ten is fine. (Double-digits!) Twenty is yippee, I'm an adult. After that, decade birthdays are all too often taken as crushing reminders of failed hopes and mortality.

But isn't the real problem that these birthdays take people by surprise? ("Shit! I'm forty! I sort of vaguely thought I was still in my twenties.") This is very startling, and engenders feelings of panic. ("Jesus, I need to get my shit together.") So I'm getting ready for the big three-oh starting toDAY. 542 days should be enough for me to come to grips with everything I haven't accomplished, and maybe accomplish some of it on the side.

So here I sit, almost thirty and acutely aware of it. You may be almost thirty, too. Or possibly almost forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty. (If so, thanks for reading a kid's ramblings!) So I beseech you, start freaking out about it now. In fact, I'm going to start anticipating fifty now, too. It's like saving for retirement, easier if you start young.

I'd like to start anticipating eighty, but that's a bit of an optimistic presumption. Then again, if I start anticipating eighty now, surely I couldn't feel anything but lucky to make it there.

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