It's still four months until I turn 30, but that age -- the big one
-- has been on my mind more than I'd like to admit these past few days.
Maybe it's because so many of my friends have been turning 30 recently: Julia,
Hans, Jason, George, and, just this past week, Stephanie. Or maybe it's
because people keep reminding me that it's approaching -- the question
everyone's always asking is, "How does it feel to be almost 30?"
The answer is, it feels pretty good, thanks.
Truth is, I actually feel better about turning 30 than I did
about turning 20. That seems bizarre. My body, as people are fond of
pointing out to me, is falling apart, and my mind isn't far behind: I don't
have the time to read any more that I used to, and I stopped being able to
do math years ago. I have fewer friends and fewer adventures than I had
while I was in college, and the thrill of new discoveries is no longer a
significant part of my daily life. There are doors that were open to me as
a younger man -- even in fantasy -- that are now closed: I have come to terms
with the fact that I will never be an Olympic athlete, that I will probably
have to pay my way into outer space, rather than be paid for the privilege,
that I will never be a rock star, that I will never even sleep with a rock
star, except possibly Patti Smith, and I'm not ready to go down that road.
In knowing what I can't do and will never be, however, I have come
to learn what I can do, and who I am. When I was 20, the world was filled
with uncertainty: a million roads stretched before me, and all of them
seemed impossibly difficult. I was terrified that I might take the wrong
road, might never discover my life's purpose, might end up in a trailer
somewhere, watching "Wheel of Fortune," surrounded by cats. At 30, I know
that living in a trailer would not make me a failure, any more than living
in a mansion would mark me as a success -- being my true self, under any
circumstance, is the only purpose I can imagine for my life, and every
road I've taken has led me to that same conclusion.
When I was 20, I wanted to be the enfant terrible -- to do
everything, achieve everything, at an age that made me seem precocious. I
had to be in the top third of my class, had to become the Young Turk of the
literary world, the youngest editor ever, setting the world on fire. At 30,
I'm too old either to be an enfant or terrible, and there's no one around
who would be terribly impressed if I was. I do the things that matter to
me because I want to do them, at the pace that I want to do them. I've
stopped shooting for the record books, and started setting personal bests.
When I was 20, I couldn't wait to move away from my parents -- I
didn't want to live in the same state! -- and I did everything I could to
distinguish myself from them, to define myself as a unique individual.
At 30, I know who I am, and while I have no plans to move in with them
anytime soon, I've come to appreciate having my parents around when
my car breaks down, or my taxes are due, or when I need to talk with someone.
I've begun treasuring the stories my grandmother tells me about the people
I never paid attention to at family parties. I've begun seeing myself as
part of something.
When I was 20, the thought of any kind of manual labor made me
shiver with disgust -- after all, wasn't that what I'd gone to college to
avoid? At 30, I've recognized that the amount of skill, effort, and
craftsmanship I put into my job has a lot more to do with whether or not
I have a successful career than how much I'm paid. I used to do anything to
avoid helping my father change the oil in his car or build something in
the garage -- now, I'm hungry for every drop of knowledge he passes on to me.
When I was 20, I had to be a part of every conversation, and began
to question my own worth if I couldn't find my way to the center of it.
At 30, I'd like to think that I only speak when I have something to say.
I'm not there yet, but I'm beginning to adopt my father's attitude toward
small talk, and it's been years since I told the pink ping-pong balls joke
to anyone...
When I was 20, I wanted my relationships to be passionate and
exciting. At 30, I've come to seek relationships based on friendship,
mutual understanding, and respect -- and find that I end up getting
passion and excitement as part of the deal.
When I was 20, I worried that I was hopelessly out of touch with the
rest of the world, that I had no taste in clothing, or music, or the arts,
or the way I carried myself. At 30, I'm getting closer to Jefferson's
dictum: "In matters of principle, stand like a rock; in matters of taste,
swim with the current." I'll still debate the relative worth of the new
Elvis Costello album or "Attack of the Clones" with anyone who will listen,
but I don't much give a damn if they disagree with my opinions. I've given
up "making a statement" with my clothes or my song selections; I make my
statements with words, now, and I say what I really mean.
When I was 20, I decided to put off pursuing my dreams because I
wasn't yet good enough, or strong enough, or hip enough, or loved enough.
At 30, I've realized that this is probably as good, strong, hip, smart,
interesting, wealthy, famous, or beloved as I'm ever going to get, and I'd
better go after my dreams now, if they mean anything to me. I know now
that they do mean something to me. I wish I'd known that at 20, but I'm
not complaining: if I was half the man at 20 that I am today, I wouldn't
be looking forward to 30 quite as much.
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