Big Three Oh

“I'd like to hope that I will continue to live my life void of age constraints. Void of fearing a new number next to my facebook birthday. But who knows what the future will bring? All I know right now is I've thoroughly enjoyed living a portion of my life, and I hope the rest of it continues down this path.” (One for the Ages)

That was how I felt over five years ago when I was writing about age. I don’t know why in June of 2009 I was stricken with motivation to explore the intricacies of age and our relationship to it, but I do know why I have fallen under the same spell today. In the last three months I have either attended or unfortunately declined six 30^th birthday parties with a seventh looming on Saturday. Ranging from house parties with family to dance marathons in Wicker Park, they’ve all been consistent in one thing: let’s get the most important people in my life together to celebrate this milestone. And who can blame them? Thirty is a big number, right?

In June of 2009 I was winding out my first year of living in the big, scary city. I was 24 and possessed the same defining trait as Jon Snow: I knew nothing. It makes me happy to see documented proof that I was enjoying my time and was stuffed with hope for an indeterminate length of time that rested ahead, unstirred and unguaranteed. It’s hard to pull a consistent string of memories from my 24^th year on this planet, but over time I can recall some of the highlights and even a few of the lowlights. I can think of a few birthday parties I went to that year when we still thought it was cool to get wristband deals at Lincoln Park bars. I remember justifying drinking on a Monday night because burgers were only a dollar with the purchase of a beer and it was the fiscally responsible thing to do. I remember dumping so much money into a Golden Tee while endlessly eating pizza on Sundays that we sought out and bought a Golden Tee machine of our own because it was the fiscally responsible thing to do. I vaguely remember making a drunken fool of myself, but distinctly remember the feelings of regret and shame I that I still feel to this day despite the collective alignment of ‘we’ve all made those mistakes.’ I remember incorrectly calculating the trajectory of the ricochet from a garbage can with my necessarily covered car too close for comfort. I remember smoking hookah on our rooftop before heading to a Wrigley Field bleacher debacle. I remember life as a 24-year-old.

“There are some people that wake up 30 years old and go 'shit, I need to get my ducks in a row.’”

I guess that’s probably still the case, but for the most part, my friends seem to be in pretty good control of their ducks. They might not all be lined up, but they haven’t let any drown either. But I think that 30 represents something wholly different than making sure your life is in order, though I suppose that’s part of it. For some, it represents a foray into married life, remodeling bedrooms, building cribs, staining decks. For some, it’s an unwelcomed reminder of their own solitude, first dates, long, meandering nights, 10-minute love and 5-minute heartache. For some, relationships don’t bind their life and the focus is on career, or school, or family and friends. Whatever it means to you, I think it’s inescapable to wake up on your 30^th birthday and not take some assessment of your life. Not that you can’t do it when you turn 28, or even when you don’t turn anything at all, but sometimes built-in check points are a helpful way to turn the looking glass inward.

“The ebb and flow of life is as wispy as swept up clouds sneaking across a low mountain sky, not meant to be contained, straightened, or organized.”

Self-analysis and honest to goodness self-awareness is such a necessary part of growing up. When you’re eight, all you need to worry about is enjoying life. When you’re sixteen, all you need to worry about is prepping yourself for future success, which can mean different things to different people. When you’re 24, apparently all you need to worry about is how to drink on a budget, lessons that college probably equipped you with. But by the time you hit the alarm clock on 30, it might be the first time you’ve had a chance to take a holistic look at your life; a sort of personal inventory. It’s a wake-up call whether we asked for it or not. And I would be willing to make a bet that the snooze on the alarm gets shorter and shorter as you age, prompting consistently more frequent stares into the mirror. This, by all accounts, is a good thing.

Skipping kindergarten has given me the opportunity to observe countless of my peers rolling over the stone of 30 before I get there, gleaning from them what I can, inferring the rest. My thoughts might not change on the dawn of my big three-oh, my actions, my theories, my feelings, they might all remain intact, but that doesn’t mean that it won’t be a significant day in my life. Which is why I have a plan.

If you’re reading this, you’re invited. Saturday, October 10^th, 2015. Save the Date. Details to follow…