The technology specialist at my school said his goodbye to me today by reminding me that I only had one more day of having a 2 at the front of my age. To which I responded that I didn’t have days but hours left, and then I smiled and turned away, got in my car and drove home. Now that the moment is here, I am caught up in a strange mixture of things. For one, I’m focused heavily on tonight’s comedy show, trying to make sure that all the premises for the jokes are in my head, that I’ve got the phrasings and timings right. Having been a performer for most of my life, I know that this is the time to start to relax, though, and that working through it a little more at this juncture has limited positive impact. So instead I’m making dinner, listening to a Saves the Day record and just allowing myself a moment to breathe.
30 freaking years old. It’s going to take me a while to get used to it, just like every other birthday. This one is obviously different, as it’s been 10 years since the front number changed. I still don’t love it, but I also know that it is inevitable at this point. Giving up isn’t something I’d ever be interested in doing, so I must press on. I find myself mulling over all the things that people have said about 30 over the last years, months, weeks and days, and I come to one conclusion: there is no one way to respond, and that’s okay. I’m me and I’m going to respond to this in a way that is exactly me: with a strange combination of uncertainty and bravado. It’s sort of my way. I slide in and out of an unusual mixture of self-deprecation and vomit-inducing cockiness, one weighing out the other rather nicely, most of the time. And that, my friends, is how I’m going to handle turning 30. It took me 30 days, but that’s what I’ve come up with. Nothing terribly moving or thought provoking, but it is what makes sense in my head. It’s how I keep the sanity.
Tonight I’m going to laugh my way straight into tomorrow. And tomorrow I’ll have to deal with a bunch of 7th graders who won’t know it’s my birthday and wouldn’t care anyway, at a job I won’t have anymore once June 13 comes along. Tomorrow will pass and then it’ll be Wednesday and I’ll have to go on with year #31. Then 32, 33, and so on.
And then we’ll do this all over again at 39. Maybe by then I’ll be dictating my blog through a chip in my brain. Or maybe by then I’ll have a little something more figured out. I don’t expect to, though. That just wouldn’t be my style.