What is 30? Its a number. Its a feeling that you've progressed beyond the rambunctious 20s; leapt further into the quagmire of "mature adulthood." Its a kick to the emotional testicles (or feminine comparable) that leaves you crumpled to the ground. Yet it really isn't that bad at all. It merely is.
Why is it a big deal? I don't know. When I careened into double digits, I honestly can't recall it presenting me with any internal consternation. 16 was a worthless number to me, seeing as I didn't get my drivers license until I hit 17. 18 meant porn and cigarettes - not too shabby at all. 21 was the coup de grace for me. The lack of paranoia - the hefty satchel strewn over your shoulder at the bar removed - now that was inherent beauty. And of course there were full nude strip clubs and being able to drive cab for some companies (ok, that one wasn't so neat).
I remember being a little freaked about hitting 20, due to my assumption that I'd never survive to see it. Obviously, that proved fictitious. I may dwell on birthdays a bit too much, but whatever. We've only a finite grouping of them.
A far as I know, there is no set precedent for celebrating birthdays after you hit your twenties. Some people enjoy the recurring family gathering. Others indulge in bar-hopping with friends (or family). Still others prefer to be alone. Personally, I enjoy the gloved hand of terror on my back (for a moment), a dollop of introspection and then capping it off with a room-spinning evening of some sort - good friends, decent alcohol and a hangover to introvert me on the next day serves me well. But I've rambled tangentially - as I'm wont to do - away from the original subject. 30.
Does 30 mean its time to settle down, work on a career and prepare for the proverbial picket fences and the shit machines? Not per se - at least in my inhabited flesh bag. Of course those thoughts permeate my brain as would gunshots no matter what I do, but I won't allow social tradition and atavism to drag me down completely. I'm building my iconoclasm one snafu at a time. Still, that temptation to club me a wife and pump her full of gism until she blurts out my demon seed dwells within the catacombs of my biology. If I had to, I'd rather pull my shit together first though. I'll worry about the procreation and other such nonsense later - preferably when I'm dead.
'They' say 30 is the new twenty (which would bump every other decade up I suppose). I have to admit, I know numerous post 30-types still attached to the rapscallion life. I'm not sure I want to leave that wacky club either. But responsibility looms like a jagged edifice. My parents are getting older and are by no means wealthy. Plus, supposing I decide to spawn - for some elusive reason - having something more solvent than a shit job would be useful. Still, I seem to be caught in a Peter Pan bear trap of my own volition. Indecision during this phase of life seems a more potent energy siphon than ever before. All this excess effort could be willingly funneled into personal productivity and progression. Dwelling on this planet is far from a study in absolutes, though (unless you're a zealot). How does one go about reaching balance? In a strictly figurative sense, no fat kids allowed on my teeter totter.
Turning 30 means - aside from utter shock at my continued existence - that middle age is pulsing ever closer. Admittedly, there is no guarantee that the species will survive long enough for me to see this fabled realm, but if it does I've got a lot of inner-demons to polka with first. Can I maintain the body breaking pace I'm at for much longer? The resilience of my early 20s is like an old pair of boxers - I just don't hold up as well. My liver is waiting for the divorce papers to arrive and my kidneys are attempting to donate themselves. All these hideous biological klaxons resound throughout me (and let me tell you, they sound worse through the droning throb of a hangover). My internal derision is at a new high-water mark. It's like puberty part 2 (ok, that's a step too far). It certainly gives life bonus confusion layers.
Th only real conclusions I've drawn about turning 30 are sparse. I'm pretty sure I'm not ready for it - but time's jackboots march on into Poland. I guess I am ready for it. Contradictory? Yes. Human? I suppose so. Its a touch freaky-deaky, but it's no Rick James. If my personal history has taught me anything, its that I'm not dead yet, and have no such agenda towards those ends. Sometimes life slaps you around. All you can do take it and return in kind whenever appropriate. I have no fucking clue what I'm doing on this planet, and I've certainly got much less time than I originally did to figure it out (unless that reincarnation thing is correct - and call me skeptical), but at least I'm not alone. I'm far from the first or last individual to run across such philosophical trees felled onto the one way street of life. So, I'm 30 - fuckin' bring it on!
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