30 Rock(s)
As many people (most of whom are safely in their 20s for at least another year) keep reminding me, I turn 30 on Sunday. All I can say is, BRING. IT. ON. Don’t get me wrong—there’s a big part of me going, WHAT? HOW DID I GET SO OLD? Didn’t I just celebrate turning 20 with all my college peeps? Was it really a whole DECADE ago that I was illegally buying vodka (with Nancy and Lauren, I believe) at Yellow Liquor? Now I’m lucky if I get carded. (Of course, the toddler in the highchair lends a bit of over-21 credibility, even in a wine bar.)
And, to drive that point home, I just read (this very morning!) this little gem of insight in John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire: “Why does childhood take forever—when you’re a child? Why does it seem to occupy a solid three-quarters of the whole trip? . . . For half your life, you’re fifteen. Then one day your twenties begin, and they’re over the next day. And your thirties blow by you like a weekend spent with pleasant company” (p. 266). As a kid, I did indeed feel like I’d be a child FOREVER. Childhood DRAGS by, as you wait for first grade, high school, your driver’s license, and—my major goal—MOVING AWAY to something NEW. But goodness, my 20s flew by. It was a good, good decade. Rather productive, too.
And while 2001–2011 was a top-notch cluster of years, difficult to top, I’m not afraid of turning 30. What do I have to be afraid of? I’m happy with what I accomplished in my first 29 years. So, I’m afraid to tell all you twenty-somethings, I’m not full of dread or shame at my not-quite-as-young age. Sorry to disappoint!
Everybody I know who is in their 30s declares this decade far superior to their 20s. Why? “You have more money, you have a clue where your life is going, and you’re just more settled,” one friend told me. As another friend put it, “You just know yourself better.” I know that’s true. Of course, turning 30 does cause you to start thinking about the rest of the things you want to accomplish in your life. But doing so, I learned, is sort of pointless.
The other night, Chris and I talked about “our next 30 years.” We discussed having one or two more babies. Taking them to Disneyworld. Watching them grow and become themselves. Celebrating our 30th wedding anniversary. Someday retiring (I want to retire to a bungalow in Santa Barbara, Chris wants an estate on a farm).
Then, either pessimistically or realistically, we realized that none of us knows what tomorrow holds. We don’t know what natural disasters, accidents, or diseases are in store for us or for those we love. Kid #2 might not be in the cards for us. Jobs could be lost. Investments could become worthless. Politicians could change all the tax rules on our retirement savings. In other words, you can't plan everything. We may as well just live life, eh? So then. I embrace turning 30. After all, if I am THIS MUCH smarter than I was when I was 20 (and believe me, I am, even if I come across dim-witted), how much wiser will I be when I turn 40? If I am THIS MUCH happier than I was when I was 20 (and I was a pretty darn happy 20-year-old), how much happier will I be on the eve on my 40th birthday? Bring it, 30. BRING IT!
And, to drive that point home, I just read (this very morning!) this little gem of insight in John Irving’s The Hotel New Hampshire: “Why does childhood take forever—when you’re a child? Why does it seem to occupy a solid three-quarters of the whole trip? . . . For half your life, you’re fifteen. Then one day your twenties begin, and they’re over the next day. And your thirties blow by you like a weekend spent with pleasant company” (p. 266). As a kid, I did indeed feel like I’d be a child FOREVER. Childhood DRAGS by, as you wait for first grade, high school, your driver’s license, and—my major goal—MOVING AWAY to something NEW. But goodness, my 20s flew by. It was a good, good decade. Rather productive, too.
And while 2001–2011 was a top-notch cluster of years, difficult to top, I’m not afraid of turning 30. What do I have to be afraid of? I’m happy with what I accomplished in my first 29 years. So, I’m afraid to tell all you twenty-somethings, I’m not full of dread or shame at my not-quite-as-young age. Sorry to disappoint!
Everybody I know who is in their 30s declares this decade far superior to their 20s. Why? “You have more money, you have a clue where your life is going, and you’re just more settled,” one friend told me. As another friend put it, “You just know yourself better.” I know that’s true. Of course, turning 30 does cause you to start thinking about the rest of the things you want to accomplish in your life. But doing so, I learned, is sort of pointless.
The other night, Chris and I talked about “our next 30 years.” We discussed having one or two more babies. Taking them to Disneyworld. Watching them grow and become themselves. Celebrating our 30th wedding anniversary. Someday retiring (I want to retire to a bungalow in Santa Barbara, Chris wants an estate on a farm).
Then, either pessimistically or realistically, we realized that none of us knows what tomorrow holds. We don’t know what natural disasters, accidents, or diseases are in store for us or for those we love. Kid #2 might not be in the cards for us. Jobs could be lost. Investments could become worthless. Politicians could change all the tax rules on our retirement savings. In other words, you can't plan everything. We may as well just live life, eh? So then. I embrace turning 30. After all, if I am THIS MUCH smarter than I was when I was 20 (and believe me, I am, even if I come across dim-witted), how much wiser will I be when I turn 40? If I am THIS MUCH happier than I was when I was 20 (and I was a pretty darn happy 20-year-old), how much happier will I be on the eve on my 40th birthday? Bring it, 30. BRING IT!
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