So I turned 30. The day came and went. And other than a morbid speech I gave to Bones which began with, “So best case scenario, we’re already 1/3 of the way through life…”, I didn’t feel much. I had a somewhat introspective bike ride home from work at midnight (after working 14 hours straight) during which I was generally feeling good about how the first 30 years have gone. I googled some bucket lists and realized I’ve done a lot of things in 30 years that many people do in 60. Complete a half marathon? Check. Yodel in the Swiss Alps? Check. Fly an airplane? Ride a viking horse in Iceland. Check and check. Drink champagne and find a state of repose (that sounds nicer than ‘pass out’, doesn’t it?) on the lawn at Versailles? Check. I’m a bucket list over-achiever. I was feeling proud about aging gracefully; I was thinking, “bring on the strands of silver hair -I’ll rock it like Rogue”, and smiling smugly to myself. I had a big party with all of my wonderful friends and family and I was feeling hashtag blessed.
And then I went to the doctor. I went to the doctor because I was having a little aching in a joint and it seemed like the responsible adult thing to get it checked by a professional. A bunch of X-rays later and I was being told that I needed surgery and that my joint would likely never be the same. And all of the sudden, 30 actually felt really grungy and disgusting. 30 felt like decrepit flesh and weakness and death. 30 felt predictable and boring and downhill. Surgery spiralled into disability and inactivity and obesity. 30 became depression and failed hopes and forgotten dreams. 30 felt like a prison.
Up until this time, “30” had just been a theoretical construct. It was a mystical future space when one would truly be an adult and one’s shit would most certainly be together. There would be the supportive husband and the babies that never cried and the house with the picket fence and the impeccably trained dog and the perfect job and the fun hobbies with friends and the rocking body and the spectacular wardrobe and the shiny car. But mostly there would be the contentedness that comes with being 30 and having your shit together.
I haven’t had a hair cut in 6 months. My split ends have their own split ends. I have one nail that is shorter than the others because I broke it and haven’t had time to cut my finger nails in a week to even it out. There are more clothes in the dirty pile than there are in the closet. I work 10-14 hours a day, 6 days a week and I still can’t keep up with work. When you get older you don’t play sports to keep in shape, you keep in shape to play sports. Or in my case, I don’t keep in shape and just get injured like a doofus.
I’ve got a lovely man around, with whom I pick fights because I’m so stressed and why can’t he read my mind and say the perfect thing to make me feel better?? And I am totally failing at supportive him in his own shit. We aren’t married. We don’t have kids. We have a nice apartment for which our rent is way too high. I am in debt. I hardly see my friends because I’m working all the time (see previous comment regarding debt). I recently spent too much money on clothes replacing all of the embarrassing items that were torn or had sweat stains and had been worn long past retirement. I still feel frumpy most days. My wrinkles are deepening. My car has had winter tires on for over a year now and is full of bags of stuff to donate, which will be lucky if they ever make it out of my back seat. Lately we’ve been talking about getting a puppy, but if I’m honest, I’m having enough trouble feeding myself 3 times a day – I don’t know that a small furry creature’s life would be safe in my hands. Unless I could train the puppy to feed me…
Content is not the word I would use to describe this life. I am burnt out. I just don’t feel like I’ve found that adult balance and wisdom I thought I would have developed by 30. Maybe if I get some glasses or a beard?
But my life is good. There are so many horrible things that are NOT happening to me or the people I love. There is food on the table and the lights are on. I have a job that I like. I live in a great city. I have friends and family who continue to be supportive despite my relative absence. I am relatively healthy despite all of my sporting injuries. I’ve found a guy who does nice things for me. And perhaps most importantly, the new season of house of Cards is still waiting for me on Netflix.
Being an adult sort of sucks, but if I could lock it in here and these would be the worst stresses I would ever endure, I would. As usual, this seems to boil down to expectations. 30 only seems dirty because I put so much pressure on it be be clean and shiny and bright. So new goal: adult by 40. In the meantime I’m going to focus on publishing my novel, travelling by dogsled and learning to cook.
The Single Serial Monogamist 