I
turned thirty on the 23rd of May which I guess is something
of a landmark age, right up there with turning eighteen,
celebrating a twenty-first birthday, and getting to sixty.
Thirty
is apparently a pretty serious age, though. Or so I hear.
I
mean sure, at eighteen or twenty-one (depending upon where
you live), you can legally vote, be drafted into the army,
and are now officially walking into adulthood, taking
on all the responsibilities that come with that. At sixty,
you're likely happy to have just made it that far unscathed,
and now potentially have the joys of the third mortgage,
bedpans and the inevitable 'Cats in the Cradle' syndrome
to look forward to from your spoiled kids.
But
then again, turning eighteen or twenty-one is often for
many a chance to finally cut loose and have some fun;
enjoy a drink, at last figure out how to get laid (and,
for once, do it properly), and escape the rigid limits
of a parental roof. You're young, your whole life is ahead
of you, and there's just about nothing to fear. In the
same vein, while at the age of sixty you might well have
a few health and other issues to be cautious about, you
can rest happily in the fact that years of toil in the
workforce are finally 'or soon will be' at an end. The
children left the roost long ago, which means there's
time for husband and wife to enjoy time together they've
probably not shared since their late twenties. It's a
chance to kick back, relax, and let someone else pick
up the slack because hey, you've earned it. It's time
to head for warmer climates, bad fishing-hats and weird
Hawaiian shirts.
But
thirty is a little more problematic. While you're still
certainly young, still largely in the earlier stages of
a career and, perhaps, a serious, committed relationship,
the levels of expectation just seem to be that
much higher than at other landmark ages. Judging by at
least some of the comments I received this past week or
two regarding my birthday, our twenties were apparently
a mere trial period in adulthood with drunken missteps
only occasionally interrupted by the purchase of a suit,
drawing up a curriculum vitae, and dabbling ignorantly
into chatter about buying shares and getting a home loan.
At thirty, people start getting promoted into more important
jobs. They start taking on the burdens of major debt.
Holy cow, they not only start really getting into the
whole marriage thing, but they start dropping babies like
there's no tomorrow! That means serious responsibilities.
So
what gives? Now I'm thirty is it finally time to pack
up the PS2, say farewell to beers, basketballs and sleeping
in? Am I required to now take on a more sombre, measured
demeanour and stop screaming madly at the television screen
for the Wallaby back-line to pass the freaking ball? Must
I now enter every relationship and job interview with
a serious, long'view outlook? Should every paycheck be
carefully set-aside with thoughts of buying that three-bedroom
condo on the lower north shore?
For
crying out loud, is this the end of fun?
Okay,
calm down, because I don't think we're in trouble just
yet...
First
up, thirty isn't a truly landmark age for everyone' many
have chosen (or been forced into) growing up well prior
to anyone tapping them on the shoulder and offering "Um,
you're thirty now, perhaps you should act your age". It
also wasn't that long ago that careers, marriages and
kids were buzzing along in full gear years before a thirtieth
birthday arrived.
Adding
to this, nowadays society is changing so rapidly that
some folks are calling thirty 'the new twenty'. We're
working longer, marrying later and life expectancies in
the Western world are constantly rising. As a result,
for some there's not as much urgency to dive in and 'get
adult life started'.
We've
also all heard the cliché 'you're only as old as
you feel', and seeing as I seem to think of myself as
floating somewhere in the ether between the age of twenty-two
and twenty-seven 'and certainly not at age thirty' I guess
it's true.
The
fact is, I was rather oblivious of whatever 'turning thirty'
was supposed to mean for me until other folks decided
to bring it to my attention. Only a true fool would misspend
a life ignorantly unaware or disinterested in making sure
they lived a meaningful, worthwhile existence. I'm sure,
perhaps sooner than I'm even expecting, many of these
allegedly 'adult' responsibilities and concerns will soon
rise into prominence on my horizon. But I'd label a fool
just as easily upon anyone unwilling to try and retain
some degree of that exuberance, free-spiritedness and
blissful 'if occasional' misadventure in their day-to-day
lives. I'm no philosopher or writer of greeting card wisdom
but it seems we only get one decent run on the giant merry-go-round,
and if I really have just turned thirty then I can assure
you the years genuinely fly by.
And
I'd take one memory of joyful recklessness, spontaneity
and enthusiasm over those of worried, cautious and pre'planned
living any day. How could you not?
So
screw thirty. I've got bigger things to worry about, and
with a little luck things will all fall happily into place
anyway 'with only the slightest of 'mature', 'measured'
guidance to help things along.
I
booked a ticket a month or so back to soon fly to Bangor,
Maine in the northeastern corner of the United States
and get away for a year of committed, distraction free
writing. I figured, at thirty, and with writing so important
in my life, it was something I ought to finally do. I'd
hate to look back in ten years and discover I'd never
adequately chased my dreams. But rest assured, sound judgement
and careful consideration of my future aside, I've also
already checked out the availability of Celtics tickets,
Pearl Jam concerts and good local pubs in New England.
There's
too much real living to do in between those gaps of getting
on with life.
Ezy
Reading is out every Monday.
