My birthday was a few months ago, notable in the fact that I have officially completed three decades of life. Thirty. 3-0. The age at which you grow up and get down and dirty with real life.
I never feel old on my birthdays. Instead, I’m overwhelmed with Prufrockian angst. What have I done with my life? Is this it? Is this me? Are the next thirty years going to be the existential equivalent of lather-rinse-repeat? Metaphorically speaking, I tie my hair in a blue ribbon, grab a basket and a sheep, and spin around town square while belting out, “There must be more than this provincial life!”
(I understand that Weltschmerz is a family trait since at least one sister-in-law has complained about similar behavior from my brother. However, I think their musings are sans hair bow and basket. I’m not sure about the sheep.)
Despite the import of this particular birthday, my inner T.S. Eliot was a complete no-show this year. For the first time since quasi-adulthood, I find myself totally at peace with where and what I am right now. Such self-acceptance is so completely unprecedented that I had to sit down and ask myself why I feel this way.
Maybe it’s the newfound parental status. Having a baby is kind of a living, breathing reminder to get over yourself. Or it could be that I’m finally writing and being read. Sure, it’s on a blog frequented by friends, family, and a handful of Russian faithfuls. (Privyet, ya’ll.) But someone’s reading my stuff.
I think it more than that, though. I’ve finally allowed myself to take risks with my life. With the exception of the 12-month period known as 2006, I’ve always done the safe, responsible thing. When a high school teacher suggested I become I writer, I told him there was no job security in it and I’d do something else instead. (That’s the real reason I became a teacher, actually: a paycheck. Though somehow I missed the memo about how small a paycheck it would be.) Ten years later when I realized I regretted ignoring his advice, I stuck with the job I had because hey, health benefits don’t grow on trees.
Two years ago, I decided I was tired of it. I was tired of the status quo because, in the words of Dr. Horrible, “The status is definitely not quo!” So I tried to get into graduate school.
Didn’t work.
I tried to get a different job.
Didn’t work either.
Then I did what any self-respecting person suffering a tri-life crisis would do: I fled the country. I figured I’d do some snorkeling, learn some Spanish, and come to grips with my life on a sandy Mediterranean beach while perfecting my tan.
I don’t know why I was convinced I was suddenly Elizabeth Gilbert, but I was desperate to get out of my ever-deepening rut. So off we went. And though I don’t tan, I still don’t speak fluent Spanish, and it’s crazy difficult to snorkel with an extra buoyant pregnant belly, I did learn some things of note.
Most importantly, there is something to be said for stability. Not having it makes you appreciate it real quick. The same is true of things like financial solvency, reliable transportation, and a working roof.
Secondly, I will always be a middle class American at heart. That means a Puritan work ethic and a nagging sense of modesty. Things like figurehead monarchies, deeply entrenched governmental corruption, or the idea of Germany controlling my immediate universe stick in my craw just a little. And a part of me really hates being the minority. I hope I’m not done seeing the world, but I’ve decided I’m a better tourist than an expat.
So how do I feel now that I’ve sowed my wild oats, watched them sprout and then get trampled under the heels of a lousy economy?
Funnily enough, I feel like everyone else. I feel old.
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