Big day, then, tomorrow.
Well, not big, exactly. Same sort of size as usual – you know, 24 hours. Breakfast-lunch-dinner (and insert another 3 midway meals if you’re a hobbit).
I turn 30 tomorrow.
I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that. As my friend Rob pointed out a few weeks ago, the traditional reason for the thirty freak-out is that thoughts start turning to Serious Issues: should-I-get-married-should-I-have-a-baby-should-I-buy-a-house sorts of Issues. None of which apply in my case because, errr, I’ve done them all already.
So having successfully negotiated quarter-life, and all its attendant crises, what exactly does turning 30 mean (other than if you wake up and find yourself in Kafka’s “The Trial“, you’re fubar’d)?
The general consensus is that this is the age we Grow Up. Camus suggested that the age of 30 was important because it was at this point we gain a new awareness of time. In the 60s, the students professed not to trust anyone over 30. To make matters worse, it’s the minimum age for US Senators.
On the other hand, this year has been one of the most extraordinary I’ve known, and has brought some wonderful experiences, and been accompanied by even more wonderful friends both old and new. Somehow, I can’t convince myself that just because the clock ticks round another notch (or ten) anything catastrophic will happen, or I’ll wake up in the morning with a crushing urge to buy a tea-cosy.
Just don’t expect me to grow up any time soon: I reckon I’m good till 50 at least. Plus, my stylist just dyed bright red stripes in my hair, so…. y’know. Maturity is over-rated, anyway.