Next Birthday

August 10, 2008 at 8:56 am Leave a comment

I am not 30.

I am nearing 29.

29 is almost 30…  30 is the milestone under 40…  40 is middle aged, it’s close to 50… 50 is basically the last decade of working, the lead up to 60…  60 is year for retirement, it’s more or less 70…  70 is pretty old, it’s old enough to be bunched with 80…

30 is old.  It may as well be 80…

Irrational mathematics aside, nearing 30 brings anxiety.  30 is the first birthday milestone of being ‘adult’.  18, 21 – those are both party milestones.  You can get away with anything in your teens and twenties.  But 30…  that’s ‘adult’.

Maybe it’s just the unspoken pressure;  the competitive sensibilities that scream “you should have a husband, a house, a car, a couple of kids, a prosperous career, a Prada bag, a flatscreen plasma tv, membership to a gym… a 15 year life plan…”

You should have your life in order.  You should be successful.  Afterall, you are 30.

I’m nearing 30 and I am anxious.  I don’t feel ‘successful’.  I don’t feel that I am where I am expected to be at this age…  despite having the house, the car, the kids, something of a career…

Perhaps the notions of “30” that I conceive are really just a sense of ‘self’ that apparently happens;  an air of confidence, pride, and perspective that eluded you in your 20s.   Or maybe it’s just what women in their 30’s tell younger women as a means to disguise their own disappointment of their sagging breasts…

Perhaps the anxiety has less to do with what I have achieved and more to do with what I didn’t achieve in my 20s.  The fear that I have missed a decade of opportunity to get away with irresponsible behaviour; the partying, traveling, socialising, bunking back in with your parents…

The fear that now that I am nearing 30 and have already attained my ‘adult’ badge that gets assigned in this decade, that at some point I will regress.  The fear that I will be one of those late 40something’s draping myself across a bar hitting on men young enough to be my own son, and wearing clothing too short, too tight, and too young.  Worse yet, I’ll be one of those women… and I won’t even notice!

Afterall, Sex in the City didn’t realise it was one of those women for at least the final two seasons… What hope do I have?

Fortunately I am only nearing 29.


Entry filed under: Musings, Theories. Tags: , , , , , , , , .


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